The Hidden Princess
by Star-Of-Radiance
Summary: Gil-Galad and his family hide a secret that is both wonderful and terrible. Years ago a baby elf was taken from her nursery. Now a lone elf maiden must find the will- after years of cruelty- to stand against evil. But she is no ordinary elf. why is she the way she is- what is the origin of her powers and appearance? Will she escape the might of Sauron who yearns to possess her?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

A Promise made:

the King, the Queen, the Minstrel and the Baby

An eagerness descended upon the awaiting Noldor. They whispered, and looked around, wide-eyed. Eager for the ceremony to start.

No one knew the Queen had been expecting. There were strange rumours- in fact, people were certain, years ago, that she was expecting. But Gil-Galad, High King of the elves of Middle-Earth and King of the Noldor, insisted the rumours were false.

But soon the strangest, most beautiful flowers sprung from the earth. They were pure gold, or silver, and shaped like stars. Like pimpernels but much bigger. Maidens and children alike squealed in awe and eagerly ran to gather them. They called them _elanor_ , meaning 'sun-star'.

And just as they sprung, the very same day, the birth of a princess was announced to everyone's amazement.

Of course, in all the excitement no one bothered to wonder why in the world this birth was so similar to Lúthien's birth, when the _nipherdils_ first burst through the green forest floors of Nan Elmoth.

But a few weeks later, there they were at the Essecarme, the elaborate Naming Ceremony for the High King's heir- or heiress to be precise- and the grandchild was Findekáno or Fingon the Valiant and- controversially- Nelyafinwë or Maedhros the Tall.

This was unusual.

He father of the infant, Ereinion, called Gil-Galad by the Sindar, was the son of Fingon, but some said he was the son of Orodreth. Personally, it was likely he was the son of the former. He resembled Fingon most, in terms of appearance and courage.

But Estela, the mother was another matter entirely. Her heritage caused her to be hidden away, her existence kept a closely-guarded secret, until it was finally revealed. By then a legendary shieldmaiden and a powerful warrior, the daughter of the dreaded and formidable courageous Warrior Prince, the Fëanorion Maedhros the Tall, one of the few warriors to have ever died undefeated, Estela herself had been undefeated and could not deny her heritage.

And there she was. Gowned in lustrous emerald silk, embroidered with silvery diamonds and adamants. Her delicate circlet of _mithril_ and adamants rested gracefully upon her head, and was the only thing that bound her hair: the colour of burnished copper with her mother's Telerin silver and gold shot through which made the colour even more stunning. It was in gentle waves and loose curls and fell to her waist, as it was a celebration not a battle she was going to, but with golden flowers twisted in some sections of her hair.

Estela held a bundle in her arms- an outstandingly beautiful girl. Some people gave gasps as they beheld the beauty of the infant. The little girl had a lush down of hair so deep a black, the mere colour was shiny, due to capturing and reflecting the light back infinitely. She had a sweet heart-shaped face, like her mother's with the most delicate features anyone had ever seen. Her skin was smooth and so exquisitely fair- or pale- that it glowed silvery, making the purest snow seem dirty. Her eyes caught everyone's attention. They were a large almond, framed with thick, long black lashes, and violet. Richer and brighter than amethyst gems.

Everyone was in awe. A more extremely beautiful child was never seen even by the Eldar. Although this was seen in every elf- she was beautiful, even by elven standards.

As was the mother. And one member of the audience was more aware of that than he would like others to think.

The Queen was so radiant that night, her exquisite, delicate hands held the baby. Her radiance filled his vision with pain.

Vorondo, the famed minstrel and follower of Queen Estela drank deeply through his goblet.

Throughout the ceremony, he kept his pained eyes upon the queen.

But though no one else noticed, Estela's eyes suddenly found his. They made emeralds looked cloudy or plain by comparison. She wanted to speak with him- privately.

Vorondo knew her well enough. But he never won her heart. In fact she had not the slightest clue about his feelings.

Estela gave the tiny bundle to her husband and moved out of the hall. He knew she wanted him to follow her.

Making excuses, the queen finally found herself in a side-room with Vorondo.

Vorondo bowed. "My friend, you know you do not need to do that." Estela said.

Vorondo gave a thin smile.

"My friend you have followed me for so long now," Estela said. Once again he was filled with her radiance. Her alabaster skin glowed, seemingly translucent and smooth. The hair framed her face and figure like a rich halo, but her piercing emerald eyes looked worried, as were her delicate features.

"Vorondo," she sighed. "My dearest friend. I never knew why you stayed with me for so long instead of simply returning to your people or going wherever you wished to go."

 _Because I will always love you,_ he said silently, although he did not tell her out loud. Estela's face was clouded with concern, worry and sadness. "What is it my Queen?"

Estela looked pained. She was paler than normal, he realised. And she looked sick with fear and worry. That startled him. Her courage was outmatched only by her skill, intelligence and loveliness. It wasn't even bias.

"You have followed me for so long, been a joy to me when there was none, and yet I must ask you to do this one last thing." She shook her head. "It's not right. Yet I have no choice."

Dread filled Vorondo like a tub. "What?" He whispered hoarsely, dreading what she would say. "What is it?" He resisted the instinct to hold her close- just that once. She belonged to another.

"Vorondo," she began. "When I was carrying my daughter, I had disturbing dreams and visions, especially as Elrond and Galadriel have both told me that this child is a seeress so I could see more clearly. The second Dark Lord, Sauron has placed a curse on our lines: my husband's and mine: the House of Finwë."

Vorondo gasped, his face turned white. The House of Finwë, was the royal family of Gil-Galad and Estela.

Estela stepped closer to him, desperately. "You know that of all the creatures of Middle-Earth none are hated first by Morgoth then by Sauron more than the elves. And of all the elves there are none they hate more than the line of Finwë. They have decided that as long as the powers of darkness exist, none of our blood shall be safe. I fear that soon, not long, both Ereinion and I shall fall in battle," she said calling her husband by his true name, not his _epessë_.

"No, do not say that" Vorondo cried. The queen hushed him. "I will not hear it!"

"Calm yourself my friend," she instructed him. "But _if_ , and only if it happens, please, I must beg of you, to take my child."

Vorondo stared.

"What? My Queen-"

"Please," she begged him. "Please. Or else all would be lost."

She took a deep breath. "Whether or not it happens," Estela went on "I need you to promise me something so that Sauron will never win. If they are determined our line shall fall, of which I and my husband are inheritors. That means that evil will have gained a great deal in this world. For over more than two millennia our family have fought tirelessly against evil. I need you to promise me, that should Ereinion and I fall in battle-"

"Please!" Vorondo cried. Estela sighed. " _If_ it should happen," she continued. "Please, Vorondo. You know of all the races of Arda, none are more hated by Morgoth, then Sauron, than the elves. And out of the elves, none are more hated by them, than the House of Finwë."

He gazed with anguish at her beautiful face. He could not imagine life without this fierce, courageous beauty, not now that he had known her, even if she could never love him back.

"If it happens," Estela continued. "I need you to promise me, without telling even your closest and most trusted of friends and confidants- for even then word might get out somehow- that you will enter into my daughter Vanimelda's nursery and spirit her away." He stared at her.

"I am a shieldmaiden, Vorondo," she smiled sadly. "And my husband is a warrior as well as a king. The Lady Galadriel has foreseen- and she is not mistaken- that the time of the Noldor is coming to an end. Should we fall in battle, as many will either be slain, fade, or leave for Valinor, our people will not stay in Middle-Earth forever. There will not be enough of us for a ruler to wear a crown. Therefore you must spirit her away- wait so that when her absence is noticed you will not be suspected."

"But what about the others?" he said. "Is there none we can trust with her safety?"

"It is not a matter of trust," the queen said. "But word always spreads and it is better not to wait. And if you are afraid of being discovered, I have made for you a harp- a large one but easily carried, especially by an elf. It is hollow inside. She will be able to fit inside until she gets older. But you must only let her out when there are no others for leagues around. Please Vorondo, you must promise me, to keep her safe and love her as I do, and as I would if I were still here, if we are slain."

Vornondo swallowed and nodded, unable to speak. His eyes filled with tears and the woman he secretly harboured a burning love for so long, hugged him. "I will my Queen," he said. "I promise."

And then, years later, Vanimelda still a toddler, news of the Queen's death reached Lindon- and the High King. The hysteria, the outpouring of grief, and heartbreak rang through the lands.

So Vorondo snuck into the nursery as soon as he heard when the little child was still asleep, and carried her safely out. He hid her in the harp as her mother had instructed and after they opened up the city gates once more after the frantic, fruitless search, everyone bid farewell to the grief-stricken Vorondo- whom they suspected had been in love with the queen- who carried a huge harp across his back.

* * *

 _ **This is a sequel to Shielmaiden**_

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own anything except for my OCs- Vanimelda, the peasants, Vorondo, and Estela.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The Harp, Two Peasants and a 'Crow'

A baby she might be in the eyes of the Eldar, but little Elenñaltë (her father-name) Vanimelda (her mother-name), was more aware, alert and intelligent than she should.

Where did Vorondo keep her? How did he smuggle her out? In a harp.

It was a huge harp- but hollowed inside, deceivingly small, with enough inside space to fit a small girl. She could breathe, but most of the time she spent there, she was sleeping. She was only allowed out to eat _lembas_ and drink fresh water and _miruvor_ , and to dance, sing and play- and only when there was strictly no other around, save for Vorondo himself.

Little Vanimelda, being deprived of father and mother, gave all her love and attention to Vorondo instead, who likewise, treated her as his own.

And they were happy.

But Vanimelda never forgot her childhood in Lindon and her real parents.

She might have been a baby, but even for an elf, she was too special- too different. And thus, he had to keep her away from even them.

Travelling from city, to village, to town playing for coin, shelter, food and drink and other necessities. He kept the little girl in the harp- she didn't like it, and whenever she was awake she whined and whimpered to be let out. Whenever she whimpered- or very rarely- cried and made noises, Vorondo would pluck the strings and play a melody. It served the double purpose of soothing the beautiful little girl and covering up the noise- it was after all a large harp. For years she was only let out to feed on _lembas_ and water, and to be allowed to dance and run about as all children should, when there was no one around for miles.

But misfortune came when one evening it started to rain.

Nothing lasts forever. But this time, it wasn't just the sunshine.

There, in the woods in the place which would one day become Rohan, two peasants lived.

They were of Northmen descent- and of the Éothéod- the ancestors of the Rohirrim- judging by their names. One was a man named Ceorl, which meant peasant and the other was his wife- Gríma whose name meant mask.

Gríma would one day become the name of another- a man- who figured prominently later on. But for now, it was the name of a wretched, scowling hag whose unpleasantness and viciousness outdid her limited intelligence and sly cunning.

Ceorl, her husband was not half as bright as his wife, and considering all mentioned above, one cannot even begin to imagine his appalling level of intellect.

The two of them were dirty, ugly and unkind, far from the noble Rohirrim and the other Northmen from which they were descended.

And as horrid misery brought it, Vorondo saw their rude shack, slumped miserably in front of a meagre farm, amidst the rain.

He knew he had little choice.

He knocked on the door.

* * *

"Ceorl!" Gríma yelled at her husband.

Ceorl was slumped sulkily in front of the fire, covered in mud, trying to warm himself after a miserable day.

"Wha'?" He grumbled. "Wha' I do, dis time?"

"Get the damned door, ye lump!" Was his wife's answer.

Scowling, the ugly lump of a man hulked towards the front door.

He opened it, sulkily, only to drop his jaw when he beheld a noble figure, much like a prince or a king, with a regal bearing, silvery hair and light green eyes.

"Good evening sir," Vorondo said pleasantly. "I am sorry to intrude, but I have nowhere else to go. Please, if I may, I would like to stay one night- no more- on the floor, if needs be, and I have coin to pay."

Ceorl gawped stupidly, before his wife shoved him aside.

"Move aside, ya great lump!" She growled menacingly, before pasting an ugly smile on her face. Let it not be said that Gríma could ever be considered remotely attractive. And her smile was even worse than her scowl because at least the scowl was not unpleasant (compared to the expression on her face that revealed her rotting teeth).

"We'come, good sir," she bowed, bending her sinewy form that looked like she had been drained of her juices. "Make yer way, in our 'umble 'ome."

Vorondo carried his harp, with the girl, slung across his back.

Gríma's eyes gleamed with greed as she looked up on it. She also noted Vorondo's clothes. They were not fancy, but they were well-made and of high quality. As for the harp- well! It was the fanciest thing she had ever seen in her life, and so huge! It was the stuff of minstrels and kings!

And her sharp, narrow eyes caught the glimpse of a rich cloth peeking through a crack in the metal.

That night, when Vorondo had settled himself down on his bedroll and fallen asleep, Grima shook her husband awake.

"Wh-wh-wha'?" Ceorl shook awake, cross-eyes looking wildly around before coming to the form of his ugly wife and shrinking (of course anybody would shrink when coming across such a sight).

"Lis'en ya fool!" Gríma hissed. She grabbed him painfully by the arm. "See 'is 'arp?"

"'arp?" Ceorl said sleepily. "Wha' 'arp?"

"Tha' 'arp ya stupid fool!" Gríma nearly yowled. "The big one! The gold one o'er there!"

"Ohh. Tha' 'arp."

"Now see 'ere," Gríma leaned forwards. "I saw som'in', sticking ou' o' tha' 'arp. Some fancy cloth, no dou'. And is big, see? Very big. Big enouff fo' a king."

"So?" Ceorl asked.

Not for the first time, Gríma cursed his stupidity. That was rich because she wasn't much better herself, but she didn't know that.

"So we gonna take I'." Gríma hissed. "Ge' i'? We gonna take wha'ever's in tha' 'arp and we'll be rich."

" _He_ won't wan' us te take it," Ceorl said sourly.

"No fool," Gríma hissed. "We gonna kill 'im."

For the first time, Ceorl actually came up to what she was saying. His eyes widened. "No-nuh-nuh!" He said, looking with frightened eyes. "Ya can't make me!"

"Fool!" Gríma hissed. "See 'ere. 'e's asleep. We can' figh' 'im if 'e's awake. 'es an elf. I checked." Ceorl's face went grey. "I can' kill 'im."

"No, no' when 'e's awake." Gríma answered. She looked evil, now, in the flickering candle-light. "'es too strong, see? Bu' 'es asleep. And we've go' this."

She drew a kitchen knife.

Ceorl didn't want to. He never wanted to. But he was more frightened of Gríma, although it later occurred to him that if Vorondo had awoken, what he would do was worse than what Gríma ever could. But he didn't. And Vorondo didn't wake up.

When it was done, Grima tried to prise open the harp. She tried once. She tried it with clumsy tools. She even got Ceorl to take a hammer to it, but no avail. And then she accidentally pressed on a knob, and the harp came open, not to reveal gold or gems, but a little girl.

They gasped. Not because this was what they least expected but because the radiant, all-shimmering beauty of this girl. She seemed to glow and shine, her skin paler and more luminous than the moon. Hair, blacker than jet and so deep and shining it seemed to capture and reflect the light, making it infinitely brighter, fell down her back, gently waving and curling in loose curls. The impossible, inhuman beauty of this one child, rendered them speechless. She was awake, and staring at them with her violet eyes.

The Grima recovered. "Kill 'er! Kill 'er!" She screeched, and the little girl, far from being frightened turned her lovely eyes towards the hag, and then to Vorondo.

She saw that he, her protector, the only family she had left, though not a blood relation, was dead. Slain by the treacherous peasants whilst he slept, because they knew they were no match for them awake. It was the only smart thing they ever thought of.

"No," Ceorl said suddenly. 'Nuh. Nuh-uh. Ya can' make me. No' a'ymore. I already killed enuff. Le' 'er be."

He slouched back down, making it clear to Gríma that he would not cooperate.

She jabbed an ugly talon at the girl. "You!" She barked. "Wha's yer name!"

But the little girl shook her head and remained silent. She would not speak to them. Vorondo had told her not to, in the unlikely event that she came face to face with someone other than him. Let her think that she was mute or stupid.

"Alrigh' then," Gríma said. "We won' kill 'er. We'll keep 'er. I could use someone to 'elp me do the cookin' and the 'ouse-keepin'," she said though it was Ceorl that actually slaved under her.

"We'll say she's our daugh'er," Gríma said. "And call 'er Kráka, af'er me mum." She looked proud of herself.

"Bu' she's beau'iful," Ceorl said. And that beauty was something that neither had. "Wha'll people think, if they see 'er? They look a' us, two ugly peasants, and think 'ow in the world did we 'ave such a loverly daughter."

This certainly was the smartest he had ever been in his life.

Now Gríma was pretty miffed about being called ugly, though it was, but she scowled, looking at the girl, and saw, obviously, that she too, was an elf.

"We'll 'ide 'er," she decided. "So no un will e'er see 'er. And we'll cover 'er in soot an' dir' and a long 'ood, to cover her 'air an' ears. She can' talk, anyway."

And that was what they did. Little Vanimelda, called Kráka, which meant 'crow' by the two, was covered in tar and soot, forbidden ever to bathe, and dressed in a long peaked hood, of black material. She never spoke. Not for a long time, though she very well could.

"Is no' good fer yer skin," Gríma would tell her. She being a filthy hag understood that concept at least. "I''ll make ya sick."

And they kept her and made her do all the chores. She tended the vegetables, fed the poor horse that looked thin as a rope, cleaned up its muck (it was her only friend), swept or mopped the floors, cleaned out the scraps and bones that the two threw on the floor during supper, filled the storeroom and pantry, cooked, washed the dishes, made the beds, did the laundry- and she was still a toddler.

A good thing she was an extraordinary little elf.

Kráka bathed. When Ceorl and Grima were snoring, she crept out from in front of the hearth, on the floor where she slept, and ran off to a nearby pool, clear and cool. She bathed herself there. But she always had to cover herself in tar and soot, and put on the filthy hood again, to avoid a beating. They would beat her. Every time they weren't satisfied with what she did, say they wanted her to cook another dinner than the one she did- never mind that they never told her, or if she didn't get there fast enough to refill the cup.

And always she called herself by her true name. Vanimelda. Elenñaltë Vanimelda Ereinioniel- that was her name.

Until one day she heard something.

Someone she knew very well, calling her name.

 _Vanimelda._

* * *

"Bring the food!" Gríma yelled, opening her ugly mouth. Kráka brought the beer in an earthenware jug and the food- great joints of salted meat, roasted and she had added herbs that she found and a few seasonings, not because she liked the two, but because she was bored and wanted to be creative. Of course, naturally they enjoyed it very much, not that they ever complimented or thanked the little chef. But she was used to it.

It never registered upon the two stupid people that she grew slower than the others. Unfortunately, against any hopes anyone looking upon this would have, Ceorl and Gríma were still alive, as mean and stupid and miserly as ever. 'Kráka' was now the size of a twelve-to-fourteen-year old human. Besides, as she didn't speak (near them at least), they assumed that there was something wrong with her body, bullied and abused her more about it.

Her beauty was still hidden- but not very well. As it happened it was still outrageously clumsy, their attempts to conceal her.

But now Ceorl looked at her greedily. He knew that Grima wouldn't tolerate this, and if she ever caught him even glancing at her wrong, she would kill him- and Kráka, even though the latter was not to blame, by whipping the skin of their bones.

Vanimelda concealed her hatred of the two. She loathed them, she could forgive them for what they did to her, but Vorondo? Never.

If she had been of the same morals as the two, she would have killed them.

She certainly was capable.

Vanimelda's mother was a shieldmaiden. Vanimelda dreamt of becoming one as well. But she concealed her heritage, descended from the greatest warriors, writers, musicians and so forth, from those two.

But she couldn't stay there. Not for much longer.

When the two had finished gobbling and gulping down their supper, tossing bones, and so forth onto the floor, Gríma's kindness went far enough to put aside a plate- of scraps, for her 'daughter', before yelling at her to clean up- fast, or she'd get a beating. Kráka scurried to do the work.

And that was how she saw herself. Kráka was the one they looked at, covered in soot and tar with a long hood, who slaved for them, and was mute.

Vanimelda was the Hidden Princess of the House of Finwë. But she was without a home.

After she had finished, the two plopped onto the bed. Their night-time 'activities' as Vanimelda so delicately put it in her mind, was not as vigorous, and who could blame either of them? Gríma was as repulsive as an orc. As was Ceorl and he was boorish and clumsy. Gríma was as vile as a shrew.

Kráka swept the floors, despite knowing that Gríma would make her do it anyway in the morning, and crept off- but not to bed.

She went to the pool.

 _My child._

She froze and turned eyes wild and wide. Nothing. And no one in sight.

So why did she feel as if,

 _Melda,_ the voice said insistently. _Vanimelda._

This time she could not mistake the voice.

" _Ammë?"_ She whispered, calling out for her long-dead mother.

"Ammë is that you?"

 _Yes, my child,_ her mother's voice said. _It is me._

A form, made seemingly out of light emerged. The form of a very tall elf-maiden, more voluptuous than most _ellyth_ , yet svelte and willowy just the same. Her skin was flawless and a rich, creamy white, and she had the loveliest face Vanimelda had ever seen. She had rosebud lips, coloured a rich, soft red, like Vanimelda's, and a perfect heart-shaped face, just like her own. Her hair was a crowning glory, thick, curling and the finest burnished copper, streaked with pure gold and silver. Her high cheekbones were beautiful and fine, jaw and chin, delicate and fine. All her features were finely chiselled and delicate, regal and elegant, with a tiny, delicately-upturned and pointed nose.

This was undoubtedly her mother. She had remembered that.

She stared. _"Amil,"_ she whispered.

" _Melda Seldë,"_ Estela whispered, tears in her eyes. "I knew I would find you."

She wanted nothing more than to rush into her arms, and feel her mother hold her close again. After so long. She never longed for Ceorl or Gríma's love, they disgusted and enraged her, and it was pointless, but her mother and father were a different story.

And yet there was something else in the image of the queen. Something translucent, as if she was made of light.

"You're not really here, are you?" She asked bluntly. She spoke in Quenya, the cradle-tongue of her family, which they had always spoken privately to one another. Sindarin was for public appearances, and Westron.

Estela's beautiful face mourned. Her long-lashed, emerald eyes filled with tears. "No, Melda. I am not."

Melda meant 'beloved' or 'darling'. Her mother-name Vanimelda, meant beautiful and beloved, so shortening it was an endearment as well as an _epessë_. To hear her voice say that word, after so long.

Vanimelda crumpled to the ground, bursting to tears. She hated self-pity, but she had been so broken and frightened, she never realised how lonely she was. She had nothing and no one after Vorondo was gone, except for the two awful peasants and a horse that was dying of malnutrition because Ceorl wouldn't spare it enough, particularly during wintertime.

She wept. Years of loneliness, and cruelty, and she didn't even realise it, until the mother that was slain by Sauron's mace, stood before her once more.

Estela wept too.

"You're not really here," Vanimelda said numbly. "So why are you here?"

"I've been searching for you," Estela said. "And although I can't be there in person- as the Ancient Laws of Eä has stated, I can help you get away from them. And I swear to you, my dearest daughter, I will never leave you again.

"But first, we must get you out of there."

* * *

 _ **Sethiel: Yes, in some ways this is different from the first Hidden Princess. There is no big time jump, and there are more interesting things involved, including adventure!**_

 _ **As I said, this takes inspiration from Norse mythology- Grima was the name of not only Wormtongue, but a peasant woman if Norse mythology who enslaved and disguised Aslaug, renamed Kraka, as is this girl, the daughter of Sigurd the Dragon-slayer and Brynhildr the shieldmaiden-Valkyrie. She became the third wife of Ragnar Lothbrok, and I really disliked what they did to her in the series, transforming her into a sissy, even though she was kind, and a home-wrecker.**_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A Fortunate Escape- and Comeuppance

"Fetch wa'er!" Gríma yelled. "An' do da sweepin'!"

See- she already did it the night before and Gríma wanted her to do it again.

Obediently, Kráka fetched a pail of water, and swept at the same time.

She was thin. Elves generally did not eat as much as humans- and this was a complaint- even though humans enjoyed elven food enormously and considered it the height of culinary masterpieces, the only thing that made them really upset was the small portions served. But still, even for an elf, Kráka was thin.

She had already prepared Ceorl and Gríma's breakfast. Though she hated them, she did what she could.

She cleaned the whole place. Though the shack had been absurdly filthy when she first arrived, her constant workings and ministrations now kept it clean. However she suspected that they kept her working simply because they enjoyed it.

A plate of freshly-baked bread, butter and cheese, milk and beer, and so forth were set upon the table. Kráka went to make the bed, put aside the laundry and feed and groom the horse, and clean the stables. The poor thing was going to die soon, she knew it. He needed more food than she did. Then as her usual routine went, she would return to the shack just in time to do clear the plates and wash them, and scrub the table. The chimney also needed to be cleaned, and the fireplace. New wood needed to be collected for kindling. Or else she would do the laundry.

Meanwhile Ceorl often went 'to do bus'nes'" although she knew he went drinking instead and gambling with 'friends'. There was a town nearby. Thankfully they never came here- they were too afraid of Gríma- but she would yell and curse and even hit Ceorl went he arrived back, cowered. It provided her with some satisfaction.

Kráka would do the laundry today. But before that the girl had to feed and groom the horse. After the housekeeping chores were done, she had to work on the farm. But as she went back, Gríma was already standing there, with a scowl on her face, and her birch switch in hand.

She knew she was in for it.

As usual she showed no emotion. Unpleasant as this might be, she knew she had to endure it.

"Yer late," Gríma growled. Hands on her hips. As expected Kráka looked down. "Yah were supposed to come back soon."

As if Gríma actually did any work to complain. If she did she would know that even with this child, the stables and sheds took time.

"Yah were supposed to draw the ale las' nigh'." Gríma scowled further. "An' the beer. Bu' the beer stank- li' fee'."

Or maybe because Ceorl had guzzled and lay wasted in it. She for a fact, had seen this. But of course, even if 'Kráka' could talk, they would never believe her- they always wanted to blame her.

She was there to make them feel better.

Gríma grabbed the girl's hand in a vice-like grip which would have been painful for a human. But she gave no sound which only infuriated the hag further. Screaming curses and insults to the girl for her stupidity and slowness, Gríma threw the slight form on the table and began to thrash at her back.

The switch went _whaaacckk_ , as it hit her. She gritted her teeth. Kráka never made any sound, which frightened, and simultaneously infuriated Gríma even more.

Screaming more insults and curses, Gríma continued to flog her. She never looked underneath the girl's clothing for fear she would become jealous- she remembered seeing her flawless skin- and thus she never knew that her floggings never left a mark- or if they did, they healed without a scar.

Kráka gritted her teeth as Gríma continued to whack her.

Eventually, realising that the work still needed to be done, Gríma released the girl. Kráka scurried away before she could change her mind.

She was so used to it. If she didn't remember another life…

She was certain they would have reduced her to being far less than what she was.

Vanimelda hated self-pity. But now she couldn't help the tears that sprung to her eyes. Sniffing, she rubbed them harshly away. She hated them. And she was alone.

No, she would never be alone.

Vorondo was dead. In the Halls of Mandos. Her parents were dead. She was left with two ugly, evil peasants who used her and treated her without love or kindness- not that she wanted some from _them_.

She rubbed the last of the tears away.

She needed to get work on the farm. And then cook the midday and evening meals, and prepare the next day's meals.

How she loathed them.

Sniffing, the horse came close to her. Old Red- he had never been given a name by them- as he was called by the couple, was a kind, gentle soul whom the little elf felt a bond with. Unsurprisingly he felt the same. She was the only one who was kind- and she was an elf- a Valinorean elf, though she had never set foot there. She was special and the animals knew it.

"What am I going to do?" She asked in Quenya.

 _Melda._

She froze.

Her mother's voice.

"Melda Seldë." Her mother's glowing form appeared. She gasped.

"You should bathe." Her mother tried to smile, but she couldn't hide the limitless pain and grief at her condition. Tears were in her eyes.

Vanimelda whipped off her cap and ran to the pool, doing as she was told. Soon she emerged in all her shimmering beauty. She didn't care what Gríma would do.

"Look over there," Her mother said.

Vanimelda looked in the direction her mother was pointing. There was a doll.

Melda gasped.

It was her.

"It's a portrait doll," her mother told her.

The doll looked like a miniature of Vanimelda in wax. Her hair was the exact same shade- in fact her mother told her it was _her_ hair.

"This doll is more than a simple plaything," her mother said. "You will see me, but at times when I am not there, this doll can come alive and speak to you, giving you advice that I would have given if I was there. Do you still have the pendant I gave you?"

Vanimelda nodded. She kept it hidden underneath her clothes. She never let Ceorl and Gríma suspect its existence.

"Then I suggest you flee. These are not the noble humans I knew in life. But they have all the vices and sins of humanity. They will take and abuse you- even more than now. She will kill you, and he will take you by force, when your beauty gets too apparent. Or else they would sell you to their friends. No more, will I ever let this happen. Now is the time. You must flee."

Vanimelda gasped. "But where will I go?"

"Out to the wild," her mother said. "I do not trust others to have contact with you- even in the safest places, words easily spread. No, _Seldë_ , you are not safe. Take the doll and your pendant. Take this horse. Nothing else."

"Not even food or provisions?" Vanimelda asked suspiciously.

"I will provide for you, Melda. I will make sure of it. But you must go- _now_."

Vanimelda nodded.

Her mother stretched out her hand. "Blessings on you, my love." She said. "The All-Father and the Valar watch over you."

She disappeared.

Vanimelda looked at the horse. He seemed to understand what she wanted him to do.

Besides he would rather die out there, protecting her, than with them.

She took the doll, clutching it, with her pendant around her neck, swung onto his back.

She could hear Grima yell her name.

The stables were open.

The Old Red took off.

He galloped, for once, his strength reinvigorated, his youth and energy renewed.

* * *

Grima only heard the sound of galloping hooves in the distance, with a start, she and Ceorl- whom she had been bullying, after she discovered what he did with the ale and the beer last night (but she never intended to apologize to Kráka)- when gaping, they saw the horse and its rider charge off into the distance.

The horse stopped.

There Vanimelda- not Kráka- stood there, in the full blaze and glory of her shining beauty.

They gasped.

Vanimelda's long hair, cascaded down her back like a waterfall. It had grown out of her baby curls, and gently waved down her back, the blackest, shiniest thing they had ever seen, capturing the light and reflecting it back in gold and silver. Her skin was fair, or pale by comparison- free from the soot and the grime, it glowed bright, silver-white, and everything seemed filthy compared to her. She had been bathing until it shone brighter than the moon at winter. Her face, lovelier than anything, was revealed for the first time in a long time, and she glowed radiant and triumphant.

She smirked at them. They stood dumbstruck.

"You never learn, do you?" She sighed, speaking to them, in their utter shock- as if they were not shocked enough.

Her voice was melodious, high and clear, beautiful as she was. Her violet eyes flashed.

"You really are the two stupidest, most disgustingly filthy creatures. Even orcs would run away from you." She continued. "I know you killed Vorondo- under the pretence of hospitality- which you promised him- and you stupidly, cowardly killed him because you weren't brave enough to face him. And I haven't forgotten that. She came closer on the horse.

"I wish you every misery you can think of, and I bestow upon you every misery that you do not think of. And as you begin to think that the worst is over, far worse will come, and you will grow more miserable day, after day. This is just the beginning."

And with that she grabbed the farm-tool she had been holding and the horse reared. Although you wouldn't think that a rake can do much damage, she had slowly been adding to it.

And she smashed the whole place. The horse trampled the place and smashed it, and went inside, with Gríma shrieking and Ceorl bellowing in shock, running out of the way to avoid being hit or trampled. They destroyed the whole place.

"Tell your friends if you like," She laughed. "But let's see if they believe you, when they've never even seen me. Be grateful. At least I let you live, if only to have misery, like you did to me."

She sped off on the Old Red.

* * *

Laughing, Vanimelda threw her head back, and the horse seem to enjoy it as well.

They were free.

Gleefully, she dismounted when they were far enough.

"Ah," she said.

They were in Anfalas, a part of Gondor.

There were some woods.

Happily, Vanimelda led the horse to the edge of the forest.

"You can leave if you like," she said. But the horse refused.

She sighed. "Very well, then." She rubbed his nose, and he nuzzled her head.

"Are you hungry or thirsty, _mellon-nin_?" She asked. She led him to a stream where he gratefully drank.

"What shall I do now?" She wondered aloud.

"My darling," her mother's voice sounded behind her.

"Amil," she said. "I've escaped."

"So I see," her mother's eyes were shining with gladness and relief- but not completely.

"You are in Anfalas in Gondor. They Men of Gondor do not know a shortcut existed to this woods. But there are hot springs for you to bathe, and plenty of fruits and vegetation of all kinds, here. We must build you a home."

She nodded. "But how do I start?"

Her mother smiled. "I will teach you to build," her mother said. "Among other things necessary for survival. The slavery the two have forced upon you will not be enough. I must give you more."

Vanimelda nodded.

She searched the woods for the right trees.

"Try talking to them," her mother suggested.

She took a deep breath, and as her mother suggested, took some water and poured it over the roots of the right trees. She opened her mind and reached out to them.

An alien consciousness reached her. It was startled, and Vanimelda felt it as if it was her own. She quickly soothed it, murmuring to it, filling it with visions of golden light and giving it more water.

She touched the trunk and spoke to it. They all were happy to give her what she wanted.

And so it began.

One door closed. But her life began.

* * *

Vanimelda built a bower. A sturdy dead branches were picked up, and her mother- or the doll who spoke- taught her how to fashion it properly, so it wouldn't break.

She went to the pond and coaxed enough feathers and down from the flocks of fowl there. She built a loom and a spindle and spinning wheel, to using makeshift tools, her mother taught her. And she gathered fibres from plants, to gather fibres. One bush was really interesting. Their seedpods burst to produce some thick fibrous stuff that was poisonous unless they were washed thoroughly and then they could be spun and put on the loom. She used berries, the juices of leaves and petals to dye the fabric she wove. She fashioned a mattress, pillows and blankets to sleep on and stuff before placing them on the bed. The branches of the trees held it like a makeshift cradle, for a baby, so it was really somewhat like a hammock.

But it was not enough.

There were hollows, coaxed by Vanimelda, in the tree that was the only possible way to access her bower. But she needed rooms. There had to be a kitchen and a dining room, and a working room. She might even need a forge.

She had to build, with the help of the willing trees.

Eventually, the animals found her.

Expressing their interest, Vanimelda saw that they would not harm her, and reached out to them. They became her companions along with the Old Red, now renamed Carnirocco, and built a shelter for him, and blankets. She worked and made the ground around the bower into a fertile garden, planting things she would need- and a maze. She built a labyrinth with roses. To make finding the entrance to the tree difficult, according to her mother's suggestion. Over time she fitted rooms into the labyrinth of different shapes and sizes.

There was a forge and a spacious living room, a dining room and a kitchen. It was better off that way. She didn't want her home scattered all over the place.

She wove built roofs of plant material, which looked sturdy enough, and were water-proof. She placed carpets on the floor of the rooms. And designed specific traps for orcs and unwanted sentient beings. Animals were free to come and go as long as they didn't soil or damage anything.

Finally she took a deep breath, relieved.

"It's done." She spoke aloud.

"Good," the little doll whom she named Almarië spoke. "It's perfect."

Vanimelda breathed out a deep sigh. "Yes."

"But nothing lasts forever," the doll reminded.

"I know."

* * *

Somewhere in Lothlórien the Lady of the Light sensed a powerful force- like light, but _alive_ \- opening its eyes and taking the breath of life on its own.

Nenya flickered, realising the power that seeped in and strengthened the world, nourishing it like light.

* * *

 ** _The name Carnirocco means, 'Red Horse' and Almarië means 'Blessing/Good fortune/Bliss' in Quenya. Thank Merin Essi ar Quenteli for the names!_**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Talking Dolls, Foresight and Preparations

Vanimelda knelt by the stream. She had just bathed in the hot spring. She couldn't get enough of bathing. After decades of being covered in soot, tar and a filthy hood, she couldn't be clean enough. Bathing was wonderful in hot spring. It stood near a waterfall. There were animals such as bears and wolves but they never harmed her. In fact, she made friends with them.

The first time Vanimelda had been there, her mother told her, "Reach out your hand." She instructed her how to communicate to the animals. She remembered her mother's uncle Tyelcormo or Celegorm the Fair had been taught by Oromë the Vala to speak to the birds and the beasts.

Her mother also taught her numerous things.

Firstly how to read and write properly. She had learnt before her parents had died, but she rarely ever used it. Ceorl and Gríma in their ignorance would have been furious that their fosterling was literate if they ever found out. They would have seen it as a threat to her submissive behaviour and believed that she was getting ideas above her station. Furthermore, they would be jealous if they didn't think it was useless to write poetry and literature.

She had barely enough time to scratch letters into the ground, anyway. But here were plants that grew which could be used to make paper. And other plants for ink. Waterfowl left quills which they discarded. Her mother also taught her to speak, and be literate in other languages. She learnt to spin and weave the elven way- or rather, her mother's way. Her mother had been the best weaver, so much so that her tapestries and the clothing she made had been worth more than gems. And if her mother wasn't there, the strange little doll who bore her likeness, named Almarië by her, was there to provide her with company and instruction.

"You will need weapons," Almarië said one day. "You must learn to survive."

Vanimelda frowned. "I've not encountered a single orc."

"Things change," Almarië replied. "This world is no longer what it used to be when your parents were children. Númenor rose and then was gone. The world changed its shape, and the elves of long ago became warped in spirit and form by Morgoth."

Vanimelda shuddered. She hated that story. She remembered her mother telling it to her.

Hard to believe but by her mother's accounts the orcs of this Age were even more twisted than the ones that emerged from Utumno.

And no, there was no guarantee of safety- not in Middle-Earth.

She dipped her hands in the stream. "Do you think I'll be able to have contact with elves? Or humans or dwarves?"

"Who knows?" The doll replied with a shrug. "But for now, you need to be kept safe.

Frowning, Vanimelda realised that both the doll and her mother were trying to keep her out of harm's way as much as possible- through isolation.

"I don't want to stay here, waiting for something to hit me," Vanimelda stressed. "I am here in the woods, and I don't know what is going to hit me, and when. That's the worst thing. I feel like something is coming and I can't do anything about it. No, I _know_ something is coming."

Vanimelda picked up the doll and walked back to the bower-house and the maze.

"Ever since I was young," she said quietly. "I've had these dreams. Sometimes I even have them while I'm awake- visions, you may call it. Or hallucinations. But I always see something."

"What do you see, Melda?" Almarië asked.

"I saw… many things," Vanimelda said. "Sometimes I see them on ships pulled by swans."

The doll's glass eyes seemed to widen. "You mean the elves under the last stage of the Great Journey- sailing to Valinor?"

"Yes." Vanimelda said softly.

"You saw them?" Almarië sounded astonished.

Vanimelda bit her lip. "I also see… other things. I saw the elves arriving on Valinor. I saw Ingwë, Finwë and Olwë making a pact of eternal friendship and building their cities- or in the case of the Teleri, their ships. I saw Fëanáro learning the Sarati and devising the Tengwar and learning metals and crafts- and helping the Teleri build their cities. I saw Nerdanel sculpting and them teaching their sons their crafts, including…" She paused.

"Your grandfather," Almarië said gently. "Isn't that right?"

Vanimelda bit her lip. "Yes." She paused again. "And I saw Míriel Serindë weaving. I learned to do it her way- and Amil's. Do think my mother saw these things? Is that why she wove so well?"

Almarië sighed. "Your mother never did have a good opinion of Míriel Serindë. Ask her, if you like. I don't believe your mother saw these things, but I know for certain that other members of your family do have the Sight. Lord Elrond, son of Itarillë, and Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood both have the gift of foresight."

"No!" She gasped. Vanimelda's eyes widened. "You mean I have the gift of… Of Sight?"

"Yes, Melda, I believe you do," the doll sighed again. "However, I don't believe your mother had the Gift of Foresight. But she came close. She came very close. Throughout her own lifetime she could sense things coming and she gave guesses that turned out to be correct more than once."

Eyes wide now, Vanimelda asked. "Like when?"

"When she told Prince Isildur that the Ring was the source of Sauron's strength, and that it contained part of his _fëa_. If he lost that Ring- if it were somehow separated from him once it had already made contact and knew the bond between _fëa_ and _hröa_ , then Sauron would be almost invincible- unless that Ring could be cut off. And it was she that gave Isildur the idea to feign helplessness- of course Isildur never really feigned anything- his father was just killed- but he was down on the ground before he cut that Ring off."

Vanimelda was silent.

"And so… you believe that…" She continued hesitantly.

"I think your mother was close. Her line was close to gaining the Sight- she already had prescient senses. Maybe she already had the Sight but it was latent- dormant within her. But she came very close- I think the Gift of Sight was merely waiting another generation until it came again. Galadriel had it. Elrond had it. Why not you?"

Vanimelda was awed. "But how do I use it?" She asked. "Galadriel had Melian the Maia..."

"And you have me," Almarië piped. Almarië may have been made out of wax and stuffing, false hair and silks but she could actually form facial expressions. And eat. Vanimelda had someone to share her meals with and to judge her cooking experiments. So now she smiled.

"You can trust me on this." Almarië said. "But we must keep this a secret, even when you come out."

"And will I come out?" Vanimelda whispered.

"Eventually all things foul and fair emerge. We have no choice. You can feel it, can't you? You can feel it in your bones and the very blood that gave your life. You can feel it in the water, and in the earth. And you can smell it in the air. The world is changing Vanimelda. It will not end with Númenor's fall, and such a time will come when the elves must leave, whether Sauron is defeated or not. This world has become too hostile and too polluted for elves."

* * *

 _Dark skies. Little stars are seen, and a thick black cloud like smoke. It hovered over a city, or a fortress, more like, built out of grey stone. The fortress was in ruins, she realised._

 _It was cold and forbidding fortress, frightening speaking of evil. Whispering of ancient curses and malevolent spirits and unspeakable evils like dark sorcery deep within its dungeons and halls. It stood amidst a hill of snow._

 _It was abandoned. But not for long._

 _There were people. Humans, she realised, making their way on foot or on horseback._

 _They were a wretched people, ragged and wearing black ragged clothing- cloaks and robes. But most of them wore expressions filled with madness, bitterness and rage- not grief and desperation. They were pale to the point of being sallow. Unhealthily so. But the bitterness, sourness, rage and hate in their eyes and faces were more than enough to dissuade even the softest hearts from pitying them._

 _At the central command- atop a hill, stood a rider on a black horse. The rider wore a cloak of scarlet atop armour of sharp iron spike-like plates. His head was completely covered with a hood and a helm of iron crowned with spikes. And his face…_

 _Vanimelda felt a chill turning to ice, colder than the Helcaraxe when she saw the hood. Inside was dark, so dark and hollow and cold, like the void, so empty and cold and void of life it was, she knew, just knew that there was nothing under that hood. But there was someone. Life, but not the sacred life granted by Eru All-Father, something much colder, much more evil, lay beneath that armour and helm._

 _And so the figure sat atop his horse, turning his cold feelings and intentions towards that cold stone fortress._

 _Intentions of evil._

* * *

Vanimelda gasped and her eyes came into focus.

"What did you see?" Almarië asked.

"I…" Vanimelda froze. "I saw a fortress. Made of stone…" She began to relate her vision to Almarië.

The doll frowned.

"That fortress. Describe it."

Vanimelda described the fortress. "A ruin," she finished, summing it up.

"Yes," Almarië said slowly. "A ruin. But not a harmless one. A place filled with an ancient evil once, full of curses and dark sorcery. A place which was the root of dark evil. Abominations, even. Carn Dûm."

Vanimelda sat astonished after a long while.

"Carn Dûm?" She echoed the startled response. "What is that place?"

A seat of ancient and cold evil to the north of the kingdom of Arnor." Almarië replied. "A place of such terrible and unspeakable evil that I dare not speak of it."

"Except that you said it isn't harmless," Vanimelda insisted. "So what does this mean?"

Almarie didn't answer but turned her eyes towards something behind Vanimelda.

"Melda," A voice called out.

Vanimelda turned to behold the image of her mother. She wanted nothing more than to run to her and embrace her like she did as a child- as always. But no, it was not possible. Her mother was not there completely. Only in _fëa_.

" _Ammë,"_ she whispered softly. Her mother smiled sadly. " _Melda Seldë_. So I see you have discovered your gift."

"So I do have the Sight," Vanimelda said. "Did you ever deny it?" Her mother asked.

"Melda, be careful. Use the Sight and use it well. But take great caution. For several reasons- one is that seeing glimpses of the future- and I know that people will never know completely the whole story, just pictures- one forms a thought- we think things will turn out this way- but remember this: the future seeks to test us; to deceive us, always. Do you know of the _Palantíri_ your great-grandfather, Fëanáro devised?"

Vanimelda nodded. "Yes, Amil."

"Then you know of its tricks. The future never lies, Vanimelda, but they still try to deceive. The Sight will show you the past, the present at work elsewhere, and the future. Just like the _Palantíri_ , but often- though not always- the Sight and the Seeing-Stones try to draw you into a conclusion that is false- misleading and mistaken. Therefore, you may not know, but your actions after coming to that conclusion- _may_ \- not always- spur on that future, or it is not what it seems. It does not tell you the whole story, Melda. Few things in the future are set in stone.

"Furthermore, when you seek to use it, it can draw you into a trap. You enter the spirit world, my child. The world of shadows. Therefore your body is vulnerable to whatever attacks you in the outside world when you cannot defend yourself, but lie in an unconscious state of mind. And your _fëa_ is vulnerable to attacks by dark and malevolent creatures who do not need a _hröa_ to sustain their existence. Not all creatures are tied to Arda, my child. And not all of them are good."

Vanimelda nodded. "Learn to use it, to shut it out, to call upon it, to sense when there is something that needs to be seen and heard. And I will protect you the best I can, with my _fëa_ in the Shadow World."

"Thank you, Ammë," Vanimelda whispered. Almarië crawled over to Vanimelda, onto her lap and hugged her tight, allowing to be embraced for comfort.

"You have great beauty, Melda. It is increasing enormously day by day. Let there be beauty and light within. That is where it matters most." Her mother smiled sadly. "You must be a light in the oncoming darkness."

"I don't want to see darkness. But if I have to face it, I won't be a coward."

"That's my daughter," her mother said softly. "When you see me, one day and your father, we shall never be parted again."

"Really?" Vanimelda asked. "Yes." Her mother said firmly. "I swear I have always loved you, Melda. And I always will. You are never alone."

Almarië snuggled deeper into her. "And you have me," she whispered.

"Yes," Vanimelda said. She should have realised. She was never alone. And come what may, she would face the oncoming storm.

* * *

 _ **Yes, you know what I'm talking about.**_

 _ **I wanted there to be a subconscious echo of what Galadriel says in the Fellowship of the Ring prologue and what Almarië advises Vanimelda. And I do believe that Sauron and the Witch-King can very well attack through the Shadow World, so her mother's spirit is there, to keep her safe, to hide her and shield her from their eyes and powers. And yes, it was the Witch-King she saw. I think you know that.**_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The Problem, Self-conflict and the Test

Years passed since Vanimelda first arrived in the woods of Anfalas.

The Kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor had been split after the death of Isildur- well, just before that, actually. Isildur had handed the control of the Kingdom of Gondor back to the sons of Anárion, his brother. Isildur's heirs now ruled the kingdom of Arnor, but a number of them were not as content, and were more ambitious than their forefather.

Vanimelda grew. She was a maiden a young one, by the standards of the elves, but a grown maiden.

And all the while she stayed in Anfalas. But something was not right.

"What shall I do?" She asked Almarië. "That is up to you," the doll replied, putting aside the piece of ribbon embroidery her diminutive hands were working on. She sat on a tiny rocking chair that Vanimelda had made for her.

"I know something terrible beyond words or imagination will sweep this land," Vanimelda said quietly. "And I'm not too happy about it. Furthermore, I've had dreams about Ceorl and Gríma."

"Ceorl and Gríma? Those two peasants?" Almarië grimaced. "So I take it they're still alive?"

"Yes," Vanimelda said bluntly. "And they're suffering."

"And you're sorry for it?" Almarië laughed. "Goodness, Vanimelda. I thought you were happy that they suffered as you did- because of what they did to you and Vorondo. You did destroy their house, after all."

"Yes," Vanimelda said softly. "I did feel satisfied. I should feel happy. But I'm not. And yet… They murdered him in cold blood in a callous and cowardly manner- not to mention stupid. They made my life a misery. Why should I not feel happy that they are suffering? But I don't."

Almarië smiled. "You have a good heart, little Melda. What did you see?"

Vanimelda paused. "I saw… They have food and have rebuilt their shack, but it's so filthy and they don't have enough for the winter."

"Hmmmmm," the doll mused. "And I suppose you do realise that if you help them, they would be far from grateful? And that they would be angry and bitter towards you instead? And you might even have to run for your life- if you are able?"

"I know." Vanimelda said, quietly. They were inside the bower-house, enlarged over the years. It was dusk. "It's still a risk."

"What are they lacking in? You said they had food."

"Clothing." Vanimelda said. "And lighting."

"No oil lamps? No oil? Or firewood? Can't Ceorl or Gríma gather some? Or make candles."

"They did." Vanimelda replied. "But the sticks were puny and soaked. And they have no oil. Their candles are even punier and weak, of such bad quality. Winter is coming. I hate them for what they did to Vorondo. At the same time I can't let them die. It's not my place to judge that. I was too hasty."

Almarië smiled. "Melda, my dear," she said. "You are growing up indeed." Then her expression turned serious. "Maybe oil. Maybe candles. But don't give them the Fëanorian lamps. They will get rich and fat like they did with your labours, selling something that is not theirs to sell."

Vanimelda nodded. "But even if I give them candles and oil they will simply run out, not make them last long and then they will have nothing. I know it's something they have to learn but…"

Almarië sighed. "Say no more." She put aside her ribbon embroidery and took up her knitting. She and Vanimelda knitted, spun and wove, Almarië using fishbone needles, filed to sharpness. They didn't have sheep but there were plenty of unexplored materials in the forest, such as the seedpods that burst producing that thick stuff, and the materials that the elves themselves invented.

"Come now," she said. "Let's get started. Maybe if you produce things of high quality than Gríma would be able to sell them and they won't go hungry."

And with that, soon animals were loaded. But Almarië refused utterly to allow Vanimelda to go. "It's not worth the risk," she said. "You are no longer small. Therefore you are easily spotted. And I am not allowing them to go anywhere near you again."

"Alright then," Vanimelda decided. "The animals can go. I'll ask them."

A horse, foxes and animals that were difficult to catch. She worried about them immensely, but Almarië assured her they would come to no harm. As did her mother when she next appeared.

Vanimelda expected her mother to be livid, but Estela only sighed. "You have a good heart, my child. But take care it does not overtake your head. Not everyone is as kind as you."

Vanimelda nodded. "But that light…"

Estela sighed. It was clear that something very great was causing her grief and agony inside. "If this is the direction where your heart pulls you, then you must undertake this one test. The Valar have a destiny in mind for you, Vanimelda. Something far different and far more than Lúthien."

Apprehension and excitement dawned on Vanimelda.

"Leave Anfalas," her mother said. "Go to the woods of Ithilien. There you will find a cottage."

"And what lies within this cottage?" Vanimelda asked.

"A witch," her mother replied. Those words sent a thrill of fear and excitement through her again. "A witch by the name of Sapzôr of Dark Númenórean descent, but she does not care for her kin, or anyone else save for herself. Go to her, Estela and play along, but be wary- she will not hesitate to consume you- for that is what she does- she consumes young maidens to gain youth and beauty. At many times she appears an ugly old crone, dreadful, frightening and malicious to look upon. But other times she is a beautiful young woman- when she has sucked youth and beauty from maidens that is. I do not know how she will be, or if she will succeed if she tries an elf, instead of a human, but please, Melda. I beg of you. I have no power to stop you, but think wisely before you make this decision."

Vanimelda was silent for a long time. "Amil," she said. "I understand what you said. But if the Valar have a destiny in mind for me, I cannot wait and hide here forever. One way or another, sooner or later, dark things will come for me. And I must be ready when they come. And even when you come and train me, passing to me your gift with the swords, it is still not enough."

"But she is dangerous, Melda." Estela said quietly. "More dangerous than you can ever imagine."

"Yes," Vanimelda said. "And so are the ones you face who will come after me, when chance comes upon them."

* * *

 ** _This is a short chapter. But then again, the previous chapters were short as well! The name Sapzôr was something I coined myself- from the Adûnaic words_ Saptha _, meaning 'Wise' and Z_ ôr _meaning, 'Fire'. Vanimelda isn't about to let her conscience go so easily- yeah the peasants may have deserved this, but hey, she's better than they are- people have to be._**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Impossible Tasks, the Danger of Youth and Beauty and Help

Vanimelda trudged along.

She wasn't happy about this. And many times, her instincts, her mind- everything about her, screamed at her to go back.

Why did she have to go for people who made her miserable, anyway? For a little light?

But she knew that if she went back, she would regret it. It was easy doing something for the people you care about. The ones that treated you well. But the ones that didn't… That was the true test.

Inwardly she groaned. She was a young elf, and she had done much worse at such a young age. But good grief, it was still trying. She was more resistant to pain and weariness than humans and even dwarves but she still hated every second of this journey.

Sapzôr. Who was this witch that could suck youth and beauty from maidens? She sounded like Thuringwethil the vampire herald of Morgoth, except that she was, according to her mother, of Dark Númenórean descent.

She would otherwise appear as a terrible old crone, if she didn't suck beauty in time.

Finally, she reached her destination. Mentally drained more than anything, Vanimelda all but collapsed, leaning against a tree-trunk.

"This is depressing," she said unhappily to Almarië. The doll looked at her but said nothing.

"Rest," she said. "I'll take watch."

Vanimelda mumbled her thanks and fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

After a while, she felt the Almarië's hands shake her. "Wake up, Melda! Wake up!"

Vanimelda snapped awake. "What?"

Almarië didn't answer, just jerked her head towards something in the distance. A human wouldn't be able to see anything, but Vanimelda saw it, clear as day.

Something very, very odd. Something like a big bowl- what in Arda? And with- a _broom_? And- was it a big _club_?"

She blinked, not believing her eyes. There, sitting comfortably within the bowl, was the ugliest human Vanimelda had ever seen- apart from Ceorl and Gríma.

She was ragged, to say the least. With the most wretched skin. A dried-up prune or a raisin would be smoother by far than she was, like someone had put a mix of thick half-dried clay, wrinkled into a thick mask, egg-yolks and spoiled milk on her. Her hair was nearly gone, thin, string-like and the dirtiest grey Vanimelda had ever seen. And she had warts, larger than a toad's, though thankfully, not as plentiful.

And she was riding the flying bowl.

The woman cackled- she could hear it from a distance. She was rowing herself through the skies with the club-thing.

"How old is she?" Vanimelda muttered to Almarië.

"She has been here since the Dark Númenóreans were called the King's Men and colonised and invaded a number of territories in Middle-Earth," Almarië explained. "And she was expelled from their ranks. Apparently she was too dangerous and terrifying for them."

"Too dangerous and too terrifying for the King's Men?" Vanimelda said in disbelief. "And too wildly independent. She did not make her allegiances to their cause and their king, I'm afraid. She only laughed at them. They feared her and her power- seemingly immortal, and like the elves and the Valar, were jealous of her. She did not seem to be fanatical towards them. They never trusted her, even if they didn't fear her." Almarië finished.

"Huh." Vanimelda replied. "She's coming closer."

Almarië sighed. "Are you still sure about this?"

"Would I have a choice to turn away later?" Vanimelda asked. "Come inside the pack."

The pack was hidden in the folds of her dress.

Finally, the witch came.

She was singing and cackling to herself, and used her broom to sweep up her tracks once she had landed on the ground and moved in front of…

A house.

Oh, what a house.

It was made of wood, dark and terrifying but even worse were the skulls. There were skulls crowning the fence-posts and next to the front door on the veranda. There were skulls on lamp-posts, glowing brightly through their eye orbits and grinning teeth. And they had all started glowing the minute she came close to descending upon the ground. The house had been invisible before.

 _This is what you face,_ Estela's voice was heard inside her mind. _Take caution and be on your guard at all times. Say the right things to her._

Right in cue, just as she had landed, three horsemen strode past. They had no eyes, no hair, no skin visible, but they were in the shapes of men. One rode a horse as white as milk, and wore a head-to-toe suit of the exact same shade. Another's horse as red as a tomato as was his suit. And the last was a deep blue-black as was his horse. They all strode past, and without so much as stopping or glancing at anything, mysteriously disappeared into the woods.

Sapzôr chuckled. She got out of the bowl, mumbling and singing happily to herself, with a grunt and a heave. She stretched in her ragged peasant's dress and placed her hands on her back. Several loud cricks of her bones were heard. She sighed blissfully and chuckled again. The gate swung open and the witch strode in. But then she froze.

"I know you're there," she grinned. "Come out, now. You don't want me to eat you now, do you?"

Swallowing, Vanimelda stepped out.

She heard the witch inhale sharply and hiss in shock. "An elf. And the beautiful one I've ever seen at that! Bless me, I haven't had an elf since that magic changed me! And that wasn't even a proper feeding either, that ceremony!"

Vanimelda made a curtsey.

"What's your name girl?" The witch sounded amused. "And don't you know better than to trespass into my place especially at the dead of night? Or do you think that as an elf you would be immune to my powers?"

"I believe no such thing, my lady," Vanimelda said demurely. "I am merely on an errand."

"An errand?" The witch sounded intrigued. "Do tell."

"My foster-mother and father," Vanimelda swallowed. "They are unable to keep any light on in their house. They need light."

The witch threw back her head and laughed a laugh that would make an orc's blood run cold.

"Aye, you'll get your light," she said amused. "But you'll have to do the cooking and the cleaning and all the housekeeping duties while I'm away. Otherwise, I'll take your beauty. And do you know what happens to an elf-maiden when I take her beauty?"

Vanimelda swallowed her fear.

"The first elf I sucked out of, and drank her blood. I was bound in this state- needing youth and beauty as the source of my powers. I was able to suck it out of every pretty maid I saw. Only humans, so far. The second time I suck out another elf-maiden's… Well. I won't need any more. And I'll be the most beautiful and the most powerful, judging what I see from you.

"But don't worry," she laughed. "I won't take it from you- if you do what you're told at least. I can give you my binding blood-oath, if it makes things easier. Until you get your light." She drew a crude knife and hacked a deep gash inside her gnarled palm. Deep, dark blood, almost as black as an orcs oozed through the opening. "Hold out your hand." Vanimelda did as she was told.

The witch grasped it. Suddenly, Vanimelda felt something surge through her, as if Sapzôr was putting something within her, and taking something out in return.

"There." She said. "Now go into the house and fetch me supper. I need food and beer and I need them now, understood?"

Vanimelda nodded. She did this before. And she was going to do this now. Except now, she was in more danger than before. And it wasn't just for her life.

Vanimelda laid out a big meal and beer saving some morsels for Almarië. Later that night, the witch went to bed and her snores shook the whole house. Rolling her eyes Vanimelda was left to find the cleanest and softest bit of the floor after she made a meal for Almarië.

The doll shook her head. "Eat something with me." But Vanimelda had lost most of her appetite.

* * *

Almarië woke her in the morning, before dawn and before Sapzôr could do it herself.

"Clean the house- sweep it, and make her breakfast. Just _look_ like you're doing it. And then make her bed. I'll do the rest after she's gone."

Vanimelda took up the broom Almarië indicated and started to sweep. After a while, she could hear the snores dissipate and a loud groan as Sapzôr got up out of bed, and went to the kitchen.

Putting the kettle on, she made some tea flavoured with mint she had brought with her. Making a big bowl of oatmeal porridge, mixed with dates, sweet nuts in rich milk, she heated it on the stove, and started- on her own foresight- to prepare Sapzôr a packed lunch to consume later.

The witch's deformed jaw dropped when she saw the elf-maiden setting the hot breakfast on the table. But she grunted and said nothing, scowling as she heaved herself onto the table, while Vanimelda went off to make her bed.

She wolfed down her breakfast and by the time she had finished, Vanimelda had already made the beds, swept the floors and handed her a packed lunch. Sapzôr did not give the slightest thanks. "Make sure you have supper ready by the time I've returned. Oh, and there are pearls in the back garden that you have to find. There are herbs, yes. And fungi, yes. And many plants that I use for my potions, a number of them deadly. But there are also pearls buried beneath the grass of the lawn. A thousand of them to be precise. Get them out, and I won't suck you dry. That and do all the housekeeping- the cleaning, the laundry, the silver that needs to be polished, the rug that needs to be beaten, the tables scrubbed and waxed, the mundane vegetable garden that needs to be watered and tended. The beer needs brewing. The fires need kindling. And food needs cooking for my supper and breakfast." She grinned a ghastly smile with rotten teeth. "I admit child, I'm surprised. But it'll take a lot more for you to do not to have me suck you dry. What's your name anyway?"

Vanimelda swallowed. "My foster-parents call me Kráka."

"'Crow'?" The witch threw back her head and a shrill laugh that terrified every bird outside was heard. "Very well then, Kráka. I'll be back a few hours after dusk." She stormed out of the house. Outside her bowl- a mortar, Vanimelda realised, was waiting. And the club-thing, which was actually a pestle, rested nearby. A broom flew into the air, and rested itself within the bowl.

Sapzôr climbed in. Once she was comfortable enough, she started to mutter words and chants and then off she went, rowing her pestle and sweeping the tracks left by the mortar with the broom until it flew into the air.

Vanimelda went back inside the house.

"Just clear the dishes, scrub and wax the table," Almarië said, emerging from her hiding place in the pantry. "Then go out into the garden. After you've watered the plants and tended them, search for the pearls. Then cook supper. I'll do the rest."

Vanimelda could not even ask how Almarië planned to do the rest. She washed and dried the dishes, putting them away and scrubbed the table with soap and waxed it- Almarië was already polishing the silver. With shock, Vanimelda realised they were dwarven-made silver. How did she get them? Dwarves didn't trade with anyone they deemed suspicious. For all the prickliness and mistrust between dwarves and elves, they traded well. But never Dark Númenóreans who deemed themselves worthier and far better than any other race who deserved to be enslaved in their own eyes.

Pushing aside her mounting horror, as she realised what Sapzôr must have done to the dwarves, Vanimelda went to the garden as Almarië had already finished and was now doing the laundry. Vanimelda helped her carry it outside, but Almarië insisted she worked on the garden now. She pruned and tended the plants and watered them.

Then she needed to get started on the pearls.

Inwardly, she despaired. There was no sign of anything being buried in the garden. And she did not think Sapzôr would be happy if she dug everything up. The garden itself was very bare, with no flowers, apart from the ones growing on the _athelas_ weed, which was allowed to flourish.

Then she heard her mother's voice. _Sing._

"What?" She asked aloud. _Just sing, trust me, Vanimelda._

Taking a deep breath, she sand a lullaby that her mother used to sing before she went to sleep. Bed and rest were what she wanted, and the previous night's sleep had been lacking. But she made herself sing. Her heart ached as she remembered the times her mother sang it to her.

Suddenly, when she finished, all was silent.

Except that she wasn't alone. Opening her eyes, she saw that sparrows had landed in front of her- a large flock of them. One of them chirped, and hopped daintily towards her.

Smiling, Vanimelda held out her hand. The sparrow chirped again and hopped upon it. She cooed to the little bird. Searching her pocket for the piece of bread she had saved for herself, she fed the sparrows.

They happily ate the bread. _Speak to them._ Her mother's voice said. _Tell them to find the pearls._

Befuddled, Vanimelda did as she was told, speaking in Quenya, her cradle-tongue, just as her mother said.

The sparrow in her hand chirped. Then it darted off and headed into the ground. The other sparrows scattered, diving everywhere in the garden. A number went behind the bushes. She could hear the sounds of tiny beaks burrowing.

Then one of them emerged, bursting from behind the bushes. It held a gleaming, shining white orb in its beak which it deposited on Vanimelda's lap. Vanimelda gently stroked the bird. Almarië appeared and had a large bowl of water in her hands which she set next to Vanimelda, giving her a cloth. Vanimelda dipped the cloth in the water and gently washed the dirt from the sparrow as Almarië disappeared and the next of the sparrows came. Again, it dropped a pearl, and Vanimelda proceeded to clean it.

This continued until a mass of shining, glistening-white pearls were in Vanimelda's lap. One thousand. She counted them all.

The sparrows chirped.

" _Hantanyel órenyallo,"_ she whispered. The sparrows cheeped happily, and then left.

Vanimelda gathered up her apron. She re-entered the house and gasped.

The house was gleaming clean- even more spotless than it had been before.

The tables were gleaming, freshly-waxed and scrubbed. The silver glowed. The floor had not the single speck of dust or dirt. The rugs were soft and fluffy, a richer colour than before when it was dulled. The wooden tops of the bench, the counter, the pantry doors and cabinets, had a sheen that spoke of fragrant wood and the sheets in the bedroom were soft, fresh and white, not a wrinkle in sight.

"Oh, good." Almarië said. "You have the pearls. "Now leave them here," she indicated the box on the table. And get the laundry, please?" She nodded, mutely.

Vanimelda got the laundry, hung on the washing-line. She helped Almarië fold them and store them. "Now make the supper, I'll draw the beer. Then set the table. It's already dusk. Tomorrow, we'll have to make food- make and cure sausages, brew beer and so forth."

"I'll make something for you to eat as well," Vanimelda mumbled. "You too," Almarië said sharply. "You've barely eaten anything."

Vanimelda made a grilled lamb, with spices and tiny raisins, basting it in sauces and its own fat in the fire. Almarië brought kindling. Fresh fruits were washed and sliced, placed in a bowl for later consumption. She also gathered and boiled wild rice, and chunks of the meat were placed for a rich stew, with bits of cabbage, garlic and spices. Almarië drew the beer and placed the mug on the table.

They ate their own dinner- small in comparison to Sapzôr's meal. But then again, Sapzôr had a massive appetite.

They washed the dishes quickly, dried them and stored them, cleaning up the table for good measure, then laid the table for Sapzôr's meal.

Sure enough, Vanimelda heard something, and Almarië went to hide. Blinking, she smoothed down her apron, and went outside.

There, the mortar was in sight. But instead of the old crone, there was someone else riding inside it.

A most beautiful young woman, reminiscent of Indis and Idril Celebrindal was in Sapzôr's place. Her golden hair shone and glowed, like the sun's rays, curling in loose curls and soft waves and her skin was flawless- the exact same shade and colour as cream and just as smooth, her features were finely-chiselled and her blue-green eyes were heavy-lidded. She was slender and willowy, compared to the thick, solid Sapzôr, and her teeth were white and gleamed, as she smiled from her full lips, which made a perfect oval when pressed together. She rowed gracefully with her slender arms.

Vanimelda blinked as the mortar landed a distance away and moved forwards until it reached the front door, spewing clouds of dust and dirt and tracks which the maiden swept away with a broom in her other hand.

She smirked at Vanimelda, with shining teeth, and stood. She was tall, and graceful, gowned in shimmering green and golds. She daintily stepped out of the mortar.

"What's the matter girl," She chuckled in a smooth, melodious voice like honey. "Don't you recognize me?"

Vanimelda felt ice flood her entire being as she realised what Sapzôr had done. She had sucked out youth and beauty from a maiden- or more.

Vanimelda turned paler than the moon and grasped the porch railing before she fell. She swallowed.

"Ahhh," Sapzôr smiled. "There they are." As if on cue, the same horsemen she had seen the previous day moved forwards and then disappeared into the woods in the night.

"Now, have you done what I asked for?" Sapzôr asked. "Or shall I suck the youth and beauty from you too? Believe me," she reached out with a slender, creamy hand and stroked Vanimelda's cheek with her perfect fingernails. "I would love nothing more." She had put her beautiful face so close to Vanimelda and she felt her breath, as fragrant as mint. Vanimelda was ice-cold.

Sapzôr chuckled. She withdrew her hand and face. It was free of warts and her cheekbones were high and defined, the nose thin and delicately-tapered and chiselled. Her gem-like eyes were at once menacing and mesmerising. She was terrifying the same way a beautiful, gleaming sword was when it was about to strike one dead.

"Where's my supper?"

Vanimelda opened the door. Sapzôr entered the house, then froze.

She had succeeded beyond doubt.

The witch could not overcome her shock, apparently. Gaping, she noted the warm fire, with good kindling stocked nearby, the gleaming wood everywhere, the soft rug and the delicious-smelling food, steaming from the dishes, just waiting for her.

She snapped her mouth shut. She strode over the table and Vanimelda went to the corner, and waited silently as despite her dainty appearance, Sapzôr's appetite and manners were just as ugly as it was before.

Vanimelda laid bread out in a dish, just in case, and Sapzôr tore a chunk without saying a word, her eyes fixed on Vanimelda's and took a swig from her tankard of beer before dipping the bread in it, and tearing it with her teeth. She watched Vanimelda, as she wolfed everything down, stew, wild rice, lamb, everything. The lamb's juices leaked out of the chunks she had bitten and ran down her smooth chin yet she took no notice of the napkin Vanimelda laid out for her, and fixed her eyes on the maiden instead. She then took a peach slice and bit into it, squirting juices everywhere as she looked at Vanimelda.

Finally she was finished.

"I'm going to bed," she said. And Vanimelda immediately cleared the dishes and began to wash them and dry them. She put them away and cleaned the table, the bench and the floor. Sapzôr's sharp eyes watched her still, trying to deduce her secrets, but seeing that she was a diligent worker.

"I have animals that need feeding," she said to her. "Tomorrow, you'll find the pens and my magic will let you through. Also, I have another task. I dropped a key into the well outside, just a few days ago. Bring it back, for me, little pet. Do everything that I have told you, and make food. There are pigs that need to be slaughtered, and made into sausages. Beer needs to be brewed. Bread baked and on top of it all, my regular meals and the housework I mentioned." She smirked. "Do this, and I'll let you live, one more day." Laughing a golden laugh that was as chilling as the one she had as a crone, she retired. Being beautiful didn't stop her snoring an earthquake inside her room. Vanimelda let out a breath.

How in the world, despite all they had done today, could they do what they were told, tomorrow?

* * *

 _ **If you want to imagine what the young, beautiful Sapzôr looks like, imagine Ingrid Pitt from Countess Dracula! That gorgeous and frightening. Her powers sound similar to Ravenna's from Snow White and the Huntsman, but they're different as well. I didn't think of Ravenna immediately when I thought Sapzôr up!**_

 **Hantanyel órenyallo** , _**means**_ _ **"Thank you, from the bottom of my heart."**_

 **Sethiel-** _ **Thanks! I really appreciate it!**_

 _ **I welcome reviews- but if they have to be critical, have it constructive criticism, not pointless insults. I wouldn't put anything cruel on anyone's story, so please don't do it to mine- like one cowardly 'guest' did to my previous story- pointless, stupid, thoroughly-dumb and brainless and didn't even read beyond one chapter. That person had no brains to fill an egg-cup. And too cowardly to leave anything but the title of 'guest' behind- couldn't even say an insult face-to-face.**_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Tests Passed, One final Challenge and a Growing Danger

Vanimelda got up, woken by Almarië, she drew the beer, and made Sapzôr breakfast and lunch. She fried sausages, cooked an omelette with chunks of ham, mushrooms and bacon, and made tea. She rolled up a loaf of thick bread a block of cheese, and an apple and a ham for Sapzôr's lunch, into a cloth. She swept the floors and set the table, with the food, so by the time Sapzôr was up, her shining golden hair dishevelled and brightly-coloured eyes, puffy, breakfast was already there. Vanimelda made the bed, while Sapzôr sat down, groaning. Best get started now.

Sapzôr gobbled up her food, not bothering to scrutinize Vanimelda like she did the night before. She tended the fire, adding more kindling.

Finally Sapzôr got up to dress. "I'll be back, same time as yesterday," she warned Vanimelda once she had finished. "Remember our conversation from the night before. If you don't want me to suck you dry, then you'd better do what I said, the way I want it, finished _when_ I want it. Remember my key, girl. And the food."

Sapzôr left. She clambered onto her mortar, and the broom and pestle floated itself onto her waiting hands. She muttered an incantation and flew off, rowing with her pestle and sweeping up her tracks with the broom.

Vanimelda turned back inside the house. Almarië was already out, and she was polishing the silver. "Wash the dishes and scrub the table," she said. "Then beat the rug and go feed the animals, then garden. I'll kill the pigs for you. But you have to make the sausages. I'll brew the beer. You've got to get that key, Vanimelda, but don't touch the water- it's enchanted. It'll make your mind go dull and render you useless and numb until she comes back."

She washed the dishes, dried and put them away, scrubbed and wiped the table, then took up the rug and a stick Almarië indicated and beat them outside the house, thoroughly.

Vanimelda went behind the house, mind reeling. How was she going to get that key, then?

She found a fenced-in area. There were pig-pens. She fed the pigs, and groomed the animals. She cleaned out their home, then went to garden. The washing was already done. She didn't need to put that much water in, though.

She saw the well, and looked down. The water was as black as pitch and it wasn't just the shadow, but she could see a faint gleam of something like brass.

Throwing her hands into the air, Vanimelda despaired. She heard her mother's voice. _Sing. Sing a joyful song of water, like the one I once sang to you._

Sighing, Vanimelda did just that.

Closing her eyes, she channelled everything into the music.

Then there was silence. Until she heard the flapping of wings, and saw to her astonishment, a drake standing right in front of her, eyeing her with interest in his gleaming eyes. He looked friendly. She gave him a piece of bread, he quacked his thanks and ate it. Then she asked him, in Quenya, to get the key.

 _Is he immune?_ She asked her mother. _The water only affects humans, dwarves and elves to an extent. I don't know if it affects ents._

The duck gave a loud quack and flapped his wings, diving deep into the well. She heard a splash and she worried for him, but then he emerged, with a shining, large, brass key in his beak.

He dropped it in her apron and gratefully she thanked him. He quacked happily and took off.

She gingerly took her apron and held it, as her mother instructed her, direct skin contact would damage her, temporarily, but not if she held it through fabric.

By the time she was inside, the house shone and sparkled like a jewel. Almarië had shelled nuts and was roasting them by the fire. Vanimelda placed the key down, did the laundry (it was smaller than yesterday's amount), hung it, and gathered the kindling. Almarië smiled at her. The silver had been polished. Everything had been swept, mopped, waxed, scrubbed and dusted. The bed was spotless and neat, a shining white like a cloud. Almarië went and killed the pigs, and the two went into the back garden to stuff and make sausages. Vanimelda swallowed her disgust. Then they cooked the sausages and Almarië gathered fruit and vegetables from the ordinary garden and Vanimelda baked bread and pastries and made supper, while Almarië washed them and brewed the beer. She then got the washing and folded and stored it and made supper while Almarië cleaned up even further. The two of them ate quickly before Vanimelda washed, dried and stored the dishes and Almarië cleaned the table, and Vanimelda placed the hot supper after the table was laid.

Finally, she heard the mortar's approach and went out to greet Sapzôr, smoothing down her apron, and looking wary.

Sapzôr arrived, as did the same horsemen. She grunted, and did not look happy.

"Where's the key?" She asked Vanimelda in a voice that reminded her of the plant that lured animals with its sweet scent and nectar before trapping them and consuming them.

Vanimelda produced it wrapped in fabric, handing it to her.

Sapzôr looked hard at it, then at Vanimelda. She narrowed her eyes. Dreading what she would say next, Vanimelda was inwardly relieved when she said, "Where's my supper?"

She opened the door for her.

Sapzôr gorged herself on roasted meat basted with sauces, peppers and other spices and onions on bread as well as grilled sausages, baked potatoes stuffed with cheese, bits of ham and lettuce. She guzzled beer. At that point Vanimelda's sharp eyes noticed spots on her hands and creases upon her neck and both spots and fine lines around her eyes and mouth. How did her youth go so quickly?

She took a slice of cheese and fruit and ate it, studying Vanimelda closely.

"Do you know what the key is for?" She asked her. Vanimelda shook her head. "No, my lady."

She smirked. "The key is for a paddock, full of sheep. It's where I get my meat. Only this time, I'm not after their meat. I'm after their wool, little Kráka. Wool that you can't get anywhere else in the world. Luscious, soft and golden. You will find the paddock tomorrow. Do your usual chores, then go to them. Remember, I will be back a few hours after sundown." She smiled deviously again.

"I'm going to bed now." She sang to Vanimelda. "You've grown even more beautiful than when I first saw you. That skin, whiter than first snow, purer, and touched by silver, like Telperion's light. That hair, blacker and more gleaming than night, smoother than silk, like the skin, capturing and reflecting light to brightness that would shame the Two Trees themselves. Those rosebud lips redder than the richest, blood-red rubies. Those delicate features that shame the work of the greatest artists, and are undisputedly perfect. Those eyes… Richer and brighter than gems! Than the Silmarils!" She sounded impossibly hungry and her eyes were fixed dark with desire upon Vanimelda's features.

"Be careful little Kráka." She said "You're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, and I've sucked beauty from countless young maidens. You've already shamed Lúthien Tinúviel, I believe. What's to stop me? Only my blood-oath. And your chores."

With that she retired.

Vanimelda was left there in ice-cold shock, before she hastily began to clear and clean the table.

* * *

Though she expected nightmares, nothing of the sort came for Vanimelda that night. When Almarië woke her up, she hastily began the same chores as the previous day.

Sapzôr did not look her best when she emerged from her bedroom.

Sapzôr wolfed down her breakfast of toast, milk, apples and pancakes. She turned to Vanimelda just before exiting the door. "Remember, girl," she said quietly with an evil smile.

Just as before, she stepped into her mortar, took up her pestle and broom and was off, flying out into the dawn's light.

Vanimelda did the dishes while Almarië beat the rugs outside and swept the veranda. She scrubbed and waxed the table, while Almarië polished the silver, then got started on the laundry while Almarië fed the animals, then she did the garden. She opened the shutters to let the air in.

"Take the key," Almarië said, after they had gathered and folded away the washing. "Make the bread, and then take the key, find the paddock and tell me what you saw."

She baked the bread, and went off. She stumbled deep into the woods, before a clearing showed itself to her. There was a fenced paddock, alright. With sheep. But these sheep… Vanimelda's eyes widened, when she saw that they all had horns- the size of a bull's- male and female. And thorns grew amidst the wool.

* * *

"Well?" Almarië said. She was on the bench, making supper. She pointed to a plate she had set out for Vanimelda and told her to eat, which she did, tremblingly, telling Almarië what she had seen, before Almarië herself ate.

As they did the dishes and cleaned the table, Almarië thought to herself. She said, "We'll set the table and put the supper on. I'll get her something to drink, while you go out and open the paddock. The sheep live under the heat of the sun. At dusk they will be cooler and calmer. They won't mind you going out among them as long as you feed them handfuls of grass." Vanimelda nodded. "But be back quickly."

She left for the paddock again.

Taking a deep breath, she took out the key and unlocked the gate. The key looked more like the key for a door. But as she went in, the sheep did not stir. She bent down and plucked handfuls of grass, and went over to the nearest sheep, feeding it with one hand, while carefully, she plucked wool from amongst its thorns. The sheep did not have as much wool as she expected, so it didn't take long until they were all pulled out. No need for scissors.

She went around, to every single sheep- there were a dozen- and did the same thing, placing the wool in her apron. After that she left, locking the gate behind her.

She went back to the house, making sure she did not have any dirt upon her, and in its gleaming state, the house was not ruined. The hot supper and the cold beer was already laid out on the table, and Almarië went to hide, as usual, in the pack.

Vanimelda swallowed and went outside.

* * *

Sure enough. There was Sapzôr. And again she grunted, as she disembarked. "Did you get the wool?" She asked. Vanimelda showed the apron full of gold wool.

"Excellent," Sapzôr said. "Now spin it, on the spinning wheel, while I have my supper." She went inside the house.

There was a spinning wheel, magically laid out for her, and she started to spin while Sapzôr devoured thick beef stew, a roasted capon with cherries and honeyed sauce, flaky bread and peaches and guzzled mulled red wine.

By the time the witch was finished, Vanimelda had finished spinning and cleared the dishes. The witch's eyes gleamed greedily as she knelt down- but not as greedily when she saw Vanimelda's beauty. She had aged more- there were more creases and lines. A few threads of grey ran through the golden colour of her hair.

"Look at this," she whispered. The gold colour of the wool was stunning, and it was so soft in her hand. Vanimelda dried the dishes in silence and stored them, cleaning the table afterwards. "Now, put it on the loom and weave. Make a thick quilt. As for the pearls…" Suddenly the box containing the pearls opened itself. Out of nowhere, a silver string appeared and the most beautiful pearls started to string themselves in mid-air. Sapzôr smiled.

"Those are not to be touched until I say so and for whom I say so," she said. "But the quilt… Is for another. Tomorrow, you shall find the answer. If you do your usual chores well, of course." She smiled.

And she went off to bed. "Do you think she's trying to trick me?" She asked Almarië who then emerged. "Of course she is," Almarië said. "But you cannot escape her." She pointed to a large loom. "Now go and weave."

Vanimelda took the wool and went to weave the most beautiful quilt.

Tirelessly the shuttle moved. "Go to sleep, now," Almarië said.

She went to sleep. On the loom, stood the most beautiful golden quilt, shining and gleaming as if gold taken from the deep mines of the dwarves had been imbedded within the cloth and embroidered in the most exquisite ways. It glittered magically, like the weavings of her foremother and mother.

* * *

Almarië woke her again, and then hid. Vanimelda made breakfast for Sapzôr, laid the table, and then swept the place. By the time Sapzôr had emerged, she had finished and went to the bedroom to make the beds and tidy the room, while Sapzôr stuffed herself.

"Follow me," she said. "And take the key."

Obediently, Vanimelda took the key. Instead of going out through the front, Sapzôr went through the back. Instead of the back garden, however, Vanimelda found herself in a hallway.

A dark, narrow corridor. Sapzôr produced a torch out of nowhere and led her through the darkness.

The walls were painted with murals of wild beasts and savage-looking creatures who tore apart people with their teeth, talons and claws. Then the corridor widened and her eyes widened and she gasped as she beheld large stone statues of people in the most grotesque of positions.

Some of them were maidens who clearly looked terrified. Others were alarmed soldiers who looked as if they were bellowing and shouting in alarm, lifting their swords and shields. But Sapzôr did not stop there.

Instead she stopped in front of a blood-red door. Taking the key she unlocked it, and she produced the quilt that Vanimelda had made.

"Excellent," she whispered. "Never seen anything so beautiful, except for you," her hungering eyes turned to Vanimelda. "Now," She gestured towards the keyhole. Almarië hid in Vanimelda's pocket. Vanimelda unlocked the door.

The door opened, and instantly light appeared out of nowhere just beneath the ceiling.

There were beds, Vanimelda realised. Soft large beds, come with curtains and canopies, freshly-made, except for the inhabitants- there were sleeping people on the beds.

"That's for you," Sapzôr smirked, pointing to a large freshly-made and canopied bed, with a snow-white bedsheet and glittering pillow cases- all of them were embroidered with intricate, rich designs. It was fit for a queen or a king. "But be warned- once you lie down, you will not recover from your sleep until someone wakes you- and no one hardly ever goes here." She laughed.

"Now," she said. "Place the quilt on the bed that is meant for it." She smiled. "Or else you'll join them- or be sucked by me."

With that, the witch left.

"Which is the right bed?" She whispered aloud.

Almarië stuck her head out of her pocket. "Look and see. The finest bed isn't always the right one."

"You mean…" Vanimelda's eyes widened. "That's right. Some of them would look gaudy with this quilt." Almarië nodded. "A bed of good quality." She said. "The best one, but not the flashiest."

Vanimelda examined the beds. One of them had a very high canopy with green silk curtains, of damask. It was made of mahogany but was too grand- it would clash.

Another was laid in blue silks with white frilled pillows. Another had yellow-spotted sheets. It was too small and nothing was right. Another was made of rosewood and had a blood-red canopy. No, not that one either. Nothing was right.

 _Melda_ , her mother's voice spoke. _If that fails, look not at the beds, but the ones upon it. And look at your quilt. Is it not fit for a king?_

Vanimelda froze.

Her eyes fell on a man. He had the greatest nobility on his face. His bed was made of plain ash, not as ornate as the others. His features were regal, calm and utterly noble. In a way, like her father, though they looked nothing alike. He was obviously human.

She placed the quilt upon his bed.

* * *

Sapzôr emerged, scowling. "Well done. You chose the king."

"Who was this king?" She asked.

"A human of a kingdom long-gone," she said. She led Vanimelda out of the room. "Do your chores." She said when they arrived at the house. "When I come back, I have one final task for you. If you succeed, take your light and leave. If not, I shall drain you dry. Nothing would give me the greatest pleasure and happiness. Don't touch the pearls." And with that, she left.

When Sapzôr finally returned, Vanimelda and Almarië had done everything they could as fast as they could. She wolfed down goat basted with salty-sweet oil, fiery spices and herbs, carrots, pears and bread with ale.

"So," Sapzôr said. And Vanimelda could see that the witch was returning to her original set. "Kráka. The final task is to get pearls to someone. Deep in the woods, there is a cave. Deep inside a cave are two rivers that have carved themselves into the rock for centuries. The first river comes from the roots of the willow trees. Another comes from the roots of the hazel trees. Only one can be safely drunk by you without any loss to yourself. But that is not your task. There are people living there. And there, they have laid out a great feast. There will be singing and dancing and the finest gowns and jewels. Like a royal court, you might think, because it is a royal court. The court of the Avari elves. I do not have dealings with them myself, but you must present these pearls to the Queen of that particular tribe." The pearl necklace floated itself in front of her. "And come back, won't you? I'd hate to retrieve you myself. You see, these aren't the Eldar of Rivendell and so forth. Or the Nandorin elves. It may be… Difficult… For you to leave."

* * *

 _ **I can promise this much- the next chapter and she's free of Sapzôr! But the final test may be the most difficult. And she's going to get thirsty. The king with the quilt, the queen with the pearls and Sapzôr herself are all connected to something or someone that would be determined to either possess her or stamp her out.**_

 _ **She may sound like Ravenna from**_ **Snow White and the Huntsman** _ **, and Baba Yaga from the Russian folktale of**_ **Vasilisa the Beautiful _, and this may sound eerily like the stories of Eros and Psyche, some Irish myths, and the story of_ Catkin _, but I own none of them! I don't even own anything other than my OCs._**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Family Backgrounds, Web of Magic Secrets and Mysteries the Start of Something Perilous

* * *

The day passed quietly, alright, compared what came next.

Breathing fearfully, Vanimelda told herself, she should not fear- whose daughter was she? Or had she forgotten? Her father and her mother both faced Sauron and did not even think to shrink. Imagine that- their only daughter!

Shameful.

Vanimelda knew that if she did survive this, she had to flee Sapzôr. Light or no, her time was up. She didn't need her mother or Almarië to tell her that. Sapzôr had no interest in keeping her alive. She wanted her dead- sucked dry of her youth and beauty. And Sapzôr herself was evil.

No, she did not feel easy at all.

By this time, Vanimelda realised she had stumbled into a cave- or rather, a large cavern. It was dark and moist, yet what little light she saw was reflected by the green-blue waters of the river, next to her, that strangely did not rush very fast, but lay still as glass. She could see well enough- she was an elf, after all. But then…

Then things began to get funny.

No, 'funny', wasn't the right word by at all. Perhaps strange, would better suffice.

She started to see images, flashing before her eyes. Things she was certain was not there in reality.

But then the images- that disappeared before she could comprehend them- vanished entirely, and she came face to face with a mirror.

It was a large mirror, made of glistening, swirling silvery glass, like water. It had a frame of sandstone engraved with glyphs and images of birds inlaid in gold.

The mirror was certainly strange.

The glass was more liquid than anything, and yet it seemed like neither liquid nor gas. The grey-silver swirled about and swished gently, confusing her.

"Your grandfather looked into this mirror."

She almost jumped when she heard the voice.

It was a female voice, cool and clear. "Where are you?" She whispered, certain the person could hear her.

"It doesn't matter where I am. I am where I should be. The question is, should you look into this mirror? You will find what you want and what you do not want, little Princess. For there is always a price."

She turned wildly around.

The voice laughed, like tinkling silver bells. "Oh, you can't do that. You can't succeed by doing that. Why are you so afraid? The Heavens have written a destiny for you, Elenñaltë Vanimelda Ereinioniel of the House of Finwë and Olwë. I doubt sending your _fëa_ to the Halls of Mandos would be part of the plan.

"When your grandfather looked into this mirror- he saw his heart's desire. I'm sure you know which grandfather. Maedhros the Tall or Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion. He was the firstborn of the firstborn son of Finwë, king of the Noldor. The eldest and handsomest of seven great and mighty sons." The voice laughed. "And being the eldest he was the one most depended and beloved by his younger brothers- the one they relied on the most. The one that was always there for them- he raised them, loved them, nurtured them, and was exceptionally comely, even for an elf. He had all he could want. Yet his heart was empty. Several maidens sought him, and yet, nothing ever turned out the way he would have wished. So one day, a Maia gave him a gift. He looked into this very mirror, and saw his heart's desire." The voice grew whispery, almost harsh with excitement. "The Telerin Princess. Oh, she was the most beautiful creature. Even I admit it must be true, the most beautiful creature in Eä. All shimmering and glowing silver and whiter than snow, a most impossibly beautiful maiden, shining and shimmering- she would put Valier to shame! Blasphemy, you'd say, and so would she! They say Lúthien her kinswoman was the most beautiful, but no one had ever heard _her_ name in comparison- nor seen her face! But then again, your grandfather did not have the best reputation, did he?

"He could have slayed dragons. He could have fought valiantly against Morgoth, like his uncle. He could have done this and that. He could have been the greatest hero the elves had. He was honourable, he kept his word, and thought not of himself. Yet, because of one oath… Everything was ruined, and the world's view of him was ruined. And he ruined her, by marrying her. And your mother. It took his own child your mother, to prove that not all Fëanorians were like that," She laughed. "Oh, I know who you are, daughter of Gil-Galad and Estela."

Unlike what Sapzôr made her feel, now Vanimelda felt truly exposed as well as threatened.

"The beautiful, silver and dark granddaughter of the Lindar Princess. How could I not have guessed? Queen Estela's daughter- of course! You've inherited the family looks, I see a lot of things. But pray tell me, why did you end up in the clutches of Sapzôr the Vile? Being beautiful means that you are in greater danger anywhere near her."

She took a deep breath. She felt Almarië stir in her pocket. _Tell the truth,_ she seemed to say.

"I… wanted to get some light for my foster-parents," she said, her voice seemingly dry. "They need it…"

"Ah yes," the voice sounded disapproving. "The 'foster-parents' who killed your guardian, enslaved and beat you and forced you to wear filth. You still care for them? I can't believe it."

"It's the right thing to do," she said. "My, my, you are your father's daughter, and your mother's no doubt. Are you still interested, little Princess? Do you wish to look in the mirror and find the answers to all your problems? Or do you take the long way?"

She did not trust this person, so she simply produced the necklace of pearls.

"Ah, a fair gift, indeed. Tell me, Princess, do you give this to a queen?"

"That was what she instructed me," she managed to breathe.

Out of nowhere, a series of lamps, hanging from the cavern ceiling clear of stalactites, lit themselves. It led to an opening, like a corridor.

"Come," the voice beckoned. She pushed back her fear. She had no choice.

Slowly, her feet brought her through the corridor. And then she froze.

There, instead of darkness was great, golden light, shining in a great, golden hall, similar to her father's throne room in structure, except that it was barely fashioned and altered by artifice, and most of the glittering quality came from crystals of different colours, half-cut out of the rock, which had been polished and covered with gold filigree it seemed, or vermeil.

A grand high platform stood at the other end of the hall, and between it, countless elves danced. They were Avari, she realised. Elves that shunned sunlight and all natural light except for starlight.

Which would explain why they were so pale. No pale was too mild a word to describe them. They were elves that shunned sunlight as their enemy. Their focus, her mother had taught her, was on survival and being kept hidden. So naturally, the sun's light would expose them. The typical Avarin day, she had been told, started at sunset.

Yet these people couldn't care less about survival, or being hidden at the moment. They were laughing and dancing, playing on musical instruments that would drive a mortal to madness if he or she were to hear it. The Eldar had been instructed to be much more careful, in such acts. But the Avari here, did not seem to have a care in the world.

"Little Princess," The voice hissed again. "Care to join us?"

"You're one of them," she said. Her voice sounded like it was from a distance.

Suddenly, Vanimelda found herself in a dark part of the cavern. She saw no light. Nothing. But something was different… She felt smooth silks against her skin. The taste of cherries on her tongue. She felt… She felt…

Then light flooded the place. She didn't see where she was, but she looked down and gasped.

She was wearing a dress that seemed to be made of starlight, the way it shimmered and shone, emitting light. The gown was intricate patterns of leaves trimmed in silver-green and wavy branches in places illuminated with the silver of her gown. A sash of embroidered green cloth, with a silver leaf motif accessorised the gown and the elbow-length sleeves were tight, embroidered with silver leaves, trimmed in silver-green and the gown billowed and flared gently out into a full skirt. There appeared to be diamonds sewn into the gown and she touched her throat in shock. There was definitely a necklace there. A necklace of adamants set in _mithril_. How in the world did that come onto her?

The necklace was undeniably breath-taking. The delicate adamants were shaped like teardrops, set into delicate chains of _mithril_ which linked together in an exquisite pattern. There were a few moonstones and it gave a net of something that looked like moon-glow and starlight put together underneath the light. And shock enough, she saw that there was a similar-looking bracelet on her wrist. And she could easily tell there was a circlet around her head.

"Like them?" The voice said, smug. "Aredhel left them to your mother. She rather loved her. She obtained them from her husband Eöl who made it, and obtained the _mithril_ and adamants through the dwarves- although they obtained the latter through trade with the Noldor!" She laughed aloud. "Oh, Eöl. Foolish, passionate Eöl. He hardly ever used his head! Only your mother's uncle he feared, due to the reputation of the Fëanorions and the most formidable, dreaded warriors! But Turgon? Never mind that he was a king! Eöl should have thought more about what he said and did in front of Turgon not just the Fëanorions."

Vanimelda went ghostly pale. She swayed unsteadily.

"Now don't be like that. I did invite you. I am the queen, here, my girl. And you did give me the gift. Stay as long as you want, my dear. In fact, that might be forever. No one ever wants to leave!" She laughed. And her presence disappeared only to leave Vanimelda staring at the Hall once more.

* * *

 _Vanimelda_ , she heard her mother's voice hiss desperately. "Vanimelda! That woman's magic tried to block my _fëa_ from making contact with you. But she failed. I just needed to wait. Don't eat or drink anything they offer you. Don't dance, not with them. But you must go to the Great Hall, make your presence known."

"Why?" Vanimelda gasped, trying to clear her head from the remnants of the woman's magic which made it foggy.

Instantly she felt her mother's _fëa_ pressing forwards, clearing her mind. "No one shall ever interfere with your mind again," she vowed angrily. "I will always be there to protect from that. I can swear to you."

Vanimelda nodded.

"My influence will keep the magic of the songs and dances at bay. But you must resist the temptation of the food and drink yourself."

"Excellent. Well, at least I'll have a clear head." She muttered.

"I had to fight off the witch herself, as well as do the best I could to keep her influences from your mind. Your fear did not help matters, _Seldë_. Learn to control it, because it is your mind that determines whether you shall win or you shall die."

There was more truth in her words than Vanimelda can imagine.

"I shall have to strengthen our bond further," her mother murmured. "It's the only way to guard both your mind and your _fëa_ from any influences."

"Yes, Amil," Vanimelda mumbled. "Is it true what she said? About…"

"Your grandparents? Írissë?" Her mother laughed sadly. "Very true. This was a gift- the last thing she ever gave me. We never saw each other again after we parted, but this gift was made to her by Eöl. Of course Curufinwë, my uncle couldn't resist tweaking it a bit after she instructed him to give it to me for my begetting-day, before she and Maeglin went on their way to Gondolin- and of course, you know the rest of that story. It was the only thing Írissë brought with her- apart from the sword."

"She was close to you and your father," Vanimelda murmured. "And all my uncles. And she married Eöl. An Avarin elf." Her mother said.

Vanimelda started. "But I thought Eöl was a Sinda."

"No, Melda. Eöl lived in Doriath and was welcomed and adopted as a kinsman by Elu Thingol, but he was one of the Avari. Of Tatyarin origins, like the Noldor, which would explain why he liked crafting so much. But he hated his Valinorean kin. Eöl's mother had entered the good graces of Thingol and thus as a favour, he took the child in, tutored and raised him as a ward. He lived in Doriath for a while- which was how he knew so much, not merely from the dwarves he was friendly with. But he could not stand the place- Eöl also hated and shunned sunlight- how many Sindar do you suppose despise sunlight- or any kind of light? Also, the customs of the Sindar and the Eldar are somewhat similar when it comes to marriage. Curufinwë, my uncle said as much when Eöl came to him. He was disgusted and enraged that he should lure and marry Írissë like that. Beren and Lúthien themselves know that they needed Thingol and Melian's permission to wed. The Avari don't think like that. They live in shadows, they are desperate, uncluttered and hasty in order to survive. Eöl could not stand the ease and the confinement in which they lived in Doriath, all the customs which were frivolous, trivial, stifling, cumbersome and unnecessary to someone like him."

Vanimelda absorbed all this in silence. "And what about my father?"

"What about him?" Her mother sounded surprised.

"Was Atar really… The son of Findekáno the Valiant or the son of Orodreth?"

"Ah…" her mother sighed. "Even that one confused me at first. Your paternal grandfather was Findekáno, Vanimelda. Of that I am certain. The high kingship of the Noldor passed from Findekáno to Artaresto because your father was too young at the time and too inexperienced. But surely you've noticed that your father and the portraits of Findekáno had more in common with what you saw with Artaresto?"

"But his eyes…"

"Your paternal grandmother was Vanyarin, Vanimelda. Artaresto's wife was Sindarin and their eyes are paler- either grey or silvery-blue. Not as blue as a Vanya. The confusion as to whose son he was, was probably because Artaresto's son was born around the same time as your father and that they were both sent to the same place- Mithlond, in order to be safe. They swapped places on the way to confuse anyone who might be targeting them. But even the Mithlond elves- who had never seen either child- were confused. Especially when Artaresto himself- _loudly_ \- thanked Círdan for keeping his children safe."

Vanimelda scoffed. "It seems that I have not a family tree, but a ball of twine." Until now, she could not be sure of who her paternal grandparents were.

"You should look at human royal family trees, then. Ar-Pharazôn and Míriel were first cousins. That was not the only intermarriage- especially during Númenor's decline."

Vanimelda grimaced. "So what now?" She said. "I have many more questions- but that will have to wait."

"Yes," her mother replied. "My first priority is to keep you alive."

"Alright then." Vanimelda said. She focused on the Avari elves. Unlike the royal court dances she had seen which there were set rules and norms for the steps, twirls and closeness of partners, the Avari seemed not to have a care in the world about such trivial things. They danced, leapt and jumped around, throwing their hair back and stretching their arms, with shawls, grasping hands and twirling with someone they just happened to come to close proximity with.

"Wait. How did she know about all this- that happened in Aman?" Vanimelda asked, alarmed. "And how did she get the necklace if it was given to you? The queen, that is."

"Who can say? Be on you guard. There is obviously magic here."

"Should I join them?"

"Why not make your entrance known. I doubt they would kill such a beautiful maiden."

"Huh." She scoffed. "Fine, then."

She took a deep breath. Praying to the All-Father and the Valar, she stepped forwards.

Instantly, everyone turned and gasped- once they noticed someone unusual had entered.

Everyone froze.

She was already regretting it.

Carefully, she glided down the steps, head held, not too high, but high enough.

 _Greet the king and queen,_ her mother hissed in her mind.

Stepping forwards, they all parted as if driven back by some magic- or insects with the threat of fire.

She reached the dais and curtsied.

"Rise," the king said.

She rose, slowly. The king had black hair that looked like liquid- it was so dark, so smooth. And he was so pale, it almost looked unhealthy.

Beside him, stood a beautiful woman with the same colouring. Pale as milk, figure like a willow and shiny onyx eyes. Her deep liquid-black hair fell in deep and glossy waves down her back and she wore a mischievous smirk.

"Ah," she said. And sure enough, it was the same voice that greeted her. "My special guest has arrived."

The king turned, eyebrows raised, towards her. "This is the one of whom you spoke."

"Yes," she said simply. She rose and went down the steps, taking Vanimelda's hand. Her skin was smooth like milk.

Everyone parted. "Care to dance?" The queen's eyes twinkled. _Vanimelda! You cannot refuse, and I can protect you. But be on your guard!_

She nodded. "Yes, my lady."

Music came again. She twirled gracefully and curtsied again to the queen, who smiled and laughed, delighted. Then she started to dance. It was as if someone was guiding her feet, making sure she did all the steps that would impress the others.

After a long while, the Avari started to dance as well. Vanimelda could see them, seemingly flying, and others coming in, dancing. A lot- a _lot_ \- of the young _ellyn_ were coming forwards to grasp her hand and spin with her for a while. Too many, she thought. They were crowding around her, like to stifle her. They entangled her like a poacher's snare, with no way to escape.

And then she found herself in the arms of an _ellon_ , a tall and handsome one. He grinned at her, showing a crop of gleaming teeth, white as goat's milk. His hair curled slightly at the ends. His face was slim, and handsomely chiselled, his bones, their placement and structure giving a finely-carved appearance. He was unbelievably handsome.

"A Star does shine in the hour of our meeting, my lady," he whispered.

* * *

 ** _Estela uses Quenya names. Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion is Maedhros, Curufinwë is Curufin. Ereinion is Gil-Galad and Findekáno, Fingon. Írissë is Aredhel and Artaresto is Orodreth._**

 ** _Minyar were the first elves who became the Vanyar when they all departed for Valinor. The second group to be awakened and found were the Tatyar- those that did undertake the Great Journey became the Noldor. The ones that didn't, were included in the tribes of the Avari. The Nelyar were the third group, the ones that managed to reach Valinor became the Lindar or were simply the Teleri, like Vanimelda's maternal grandmother. The ones that didn't manage to get there, became the Sindar, and the Nandorin elves, like the Silvan elves. The ones that did not undertake the journey at all, made up the rest of the Avari tribes._**

 ** _If you've read my first fanfic about Estela, Vanimelda's mother, then you know at first, she is confused as to whose son Gil-Galad was. In the Silmarillion and Unfinished Tales, Tolkien said that he was the son of Fingon the Valiant. But in other works, he is the son of Orodreth and the brother of Finduilas, and his mother was apparently a Sindarin Lady of the North. As for_** **_Eöl, sometimes he is a Sinda and the kinsman of Thingol, and other times he is an Avarin elf of Tatyarin origin._**

 ** _Now here's the thing- we're all very confused. If Gil-Galad was supposed to be the son of Orodreth, why is he dark-haired (in most artworks that I've seen and the film) and how did he become High King so easily? And yet, wouldn't he be young when his father- whoever that was- sent him away? So why should a little boy immediately be crowned king? And his personality fits more with Fingon than with Orodreth whom some considered weak, even foolish (sorry if you are his fans!), like he had been trained and groomed by Fingon as his heir. As for Eöl- he is too different from a Sindarin elf- and in some works he is Sinda and in others Avar. I tried to reconcile both and provide an explanation for his and Gil-Galad's background for all canon-works! He would have remembered- whether he hated the Noldor or not-to ask for permission to marry Aredhel. And Sindar don't shun sunlight as he did, but Avari would need to be hidden to survive._**

 ** _More secrets about her family later!_**


	9. Chapter 9

_**Yes, yes I'm so sorry it's been too long! But I managed to get a few things sorted. Ugh, please don't kill me! Ad this isn't much of a chapter anyway, unlike the next one. SO, SO SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO SORRY!**_

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Chapter Nine

Forewarning, Hunting Spies and Omens

 _Melda! Vanimelda!_

Vanimelda instantly woke up.

She remembered dancing that night. All of them crowding around her, laughing and singing. Many _ellyn_ \- too many _ellyn_ \- were all crowding around her, like a poacher's net. She loathed the feeling. But only one managed to drive the rest away. They danced for a while. He was very handsome even for elven standards, but Vanimelda did not feel any easier around him. So what if he was handsome? Sapzôr was beautiful when she had sucked a maiden's youth and beauty.

 _You're growing wise, Melda Seldë,_ her mother's voice spoke in her mind.

 _Don't say anything aloud._

 _Yes Amil._

After in between dances, she had been offered food and drink to refresh herself. She resisted. But the dancing and song were designed so that Avari elves would release themselves- let themselves go into oblivion for one night, until they exhausted themselves, her mother warned. She needed to rest. A mortal would have dropped dead- literally- from a weakened heart and exhaustion. It would have killed anyone that wasn't immortal and even then it was draining.

Vanimelda looked around. Yes, she remembered what happened the night before. There were maids sleeping, in beds all around her, snoozing comfortably under thick wool-like comforters and quilts and down-stuffed pillows. The room was dark, but it did not look like it was in a cave. It looked like the interior of an artificial structure made if wood. She remembered going somewhere, deep into tunnels in the system of caves, herded along told by her mother to go along with the other maidens. She remembered being assigned a bed and taking off her elaborate, glittering gown and jewels and putting on a flannel nightdress.

She shook her head. Her mother kept the worse of the magic at bay. It was a good thing she stopped dancing before she passed out from exhaustion.

 _I have to find the queen,_ she told her mother. _I have to know._

 _And walk into a trap?_ Her mother sounded disapproving. _She knows my fate, Amil_ , Vanimelda insisted. _I have to know too._

 _Do you think she would really tell you?_ Her mother sounded incredulous. _Do you think she would give you anything without asking you to give up something that you cannot afford to lose- like your freedom? Her own son has his own sights on you._

 _Her son?_ Vanimelda was bewildered. _The one that danced with you in the end. The one whom all others parted for him._

Oh. _That_ one.

 _Get out of here. And_ don't _go back to Sapzôr. She will give you light but at your own price- she will attempt to suck you dry as she did the others._

 _Won't they try to stop me?_

 _We shall see about that. Take the necklace. It belongs to you now._

She saw the necklace on the table by her bedside. She snatched it immediately. _Get the gown_ , her mother said. _You have nothing else to wear._

The gown shimmered and glittered as if it was made out of liquid starlight, the silvery-green leaves seemed to move and sway on its own. It was so realistic, she thought as she touched the fabric, intricate and finely embroidered. She had never seen weaving so beautiful. The branches and vines themselves seemed like actual spring green, only much too beautiful, even if they weren't touched by silver and so detailed it was perfect. The silver touched the green becoming one- there was no clear division. At times the leaves were green, and at others silver, while other times they mingled perfectly together in the light captured. The same could be said about the leaves on her embroidered sleeves in silver trimmed with silvery-green, or the other way around.

This was her mother's work. No one, Eldar or Avari, had the skill to make such things. No one. Only her mother and Míriel Serindë, their foremother.

 _Yes,_ her mother said. _I made it for you._

She froze. _If that's the case,_ she said slowly. How did she get it?

Silence.

 _I need to leave still. But I have a feeling I would not see the last of them._

 _No,_ her mother agreed. _Go. I will protect you from their magic. Go!_

Vanimelda wasted no time talking. She left the place, tying the sash securely in place and slipping on her shoes.

Heart pounding, she made her way out of the place.

Yes, they were underground. But it was very shallow ground. Made with a system of natural, not artificial tunnels and caverns. Not like the dwarves who delved deep underground. And this was near, very near the surface.

 _I need something to drink._ She said.

 _There's a river, coming from the roots of the hazel tree._ Her mother said. _That one imparts wisdom. The one coming from the roots of the willow will make you forget even who you are._

She stopped dead. There were two rivers, both glassy-looking in the caverns.

Which one?

 _Sense it,_ her mother urged. _I cannot tell you which one outright. You must use your own power._

 _My foresight?_ She asked incredulously.

 _Yes._

Vanimelda inwardly groaned and closed her eyes.

She searched. She searched. Everything was silent, just as her mother and Almarië taught her. Speaking of which….

 _Almarië waits for us outside,_ her mother said. _Now concentrate!_

She closed her eyes again. She reached out with her _fëa_. She allowed herself to go free, beyond herself, to float amidst blue swirling darkness with stars floating calmly around her. She saw it, and stepped forwards. There was a swirling whirlpool of stars and midnight in front of her. She walked slowly towards it.

She dared not to breathe, even as a great white light illuminated itself in front of her.

She had been practising. But somehow…

No, she wasn't ready.

Yet she still stepped forwards.

Her mother was there. And she had always protected her.

Amidst the light, she saw, clear as day, herself kneeling in front of the river on the left. She cupped water in her hands, and drank it. Instantly her head threw back and her eyes, wide and filled with terror, went blank. She could feel her future person's mind lose everything. Everything, going if not gone…

It was the wrong one.

And she saw herself kneeling on the river on the right. Cupping water with her hands, scooping it from the river, drawing it to her mouth and drinking it. And she saw light explode in her mind and her eyes grew more focused and understanding and clarity were illuminated within.

The light engulfed her.

She gasped, coming back to the present and catching herself before she fell.

It's the one on the right, she thought.

 _Yes,_ her mother said. _Now drink. You will need it._

She went to the river on the right. It was clear as crystal. No creature dwelled there, not even the pale fish and crayfish that inhabited underground pools which went white in colour and blind due to the lack of necessity for colour there and perpetual darkness. It was so clear.

She scooped water with her hands, cupping it, and took a deep breath before it entered her mouth.

It was as clear as crystal, fresh and cold, and sweet exploding on her tongue with all the freshness and clarity the whole world could offer. She felt her mind rejoice as it dispelled all the murkiness of the night's events and she felt as if tendrils of dancing, joyful colours were exploding into life and dancing within her mind. She felt slowly more confident, everything became clearer. She felt rejuvenated and strengthened. Yes, now yes, she could see light, yes she could understand!

In that state of euphoria, she drank some more.

Now she had to leave.

She ran quietly through the tunnels. And finally the night air hit her.

"You've been down there for two days," a voice said.

She looked down. There was Almarië sitting on the roots of the hazel tree, staring up at her diminutive hands folded neatly on her lap.

"We need to leave," her voice sounded clearer.

She knelt down and gathered Almarië.

"Well, well." The queen's voice entered her ears.

She froze and turned.

The queen smiled wider. She seemed unsurprised.

"Princess Vanimelda. You truly are something, aren't you?" Vanimelda raised her head.

"You didn't think you could leave so easily, do you?" She chuckled. "No. Doriath itself did not allow anyone to leave or enter its boundaries so easily. Neither did Gondolin. So why should we be any different, even if we are Avari?"

"You know too much for someone who never met my mother in life." She said. "And for someone who had never been to Valinor either. You obtained a necklace, a gown and a mirror, the first given to my mother, the second woven by my mother and the third, used by my grandfather to find his heart's desire."

"Ah, yes." The queen sighed. "Clever of me."

"Merely clever or deviously cunning?" She asked. "Either way it is not enough. Your connection to Sapzôr… surely you don't think that she won't threaten you and your people?"

The queen raised her eyebrows. "Why would she? How could she? My power is as great as hers- greater actually. I am not dependant on young maid to suck beauty and youth out of to maintain my power."

"No, but she will draw you in a trap. For now, she fears you. But a darkness is rising, queen of the _Moriquendi_. And with it, soon you will have to fear others greater than a mere, mortal-born witch who betrayed her own kind. What then will you do? When the darkness comes and clouds the forests of the deep, what then will you do?"

The queen was about to answer when she froze. "You drank from the hazel river."

That was the first time Vanimelda had caught her off guard.

"Yes."

The queen's face reflected utter shock. "How did you do it?" She whispered. Which one…."

So the Avari didn't know which river granted wisdom and which one gave forgetfulness.

She cocked her head to one side. "You're not the only one with powers. And I am protected from your magic, now. I see things that others cannot." She said bluntly.

"Now, let me go. I intend to give Sapzôr a lesson she will never forget." She said icily. "She hasn't double-crossed me. If only I've done _that_ to her." Her eyes burned bright and dark at the same time. She cocked her head to one side.

"What did you see?" The queen hissed, moving forwards as if to grasp her. "What did you see? You must tell me what you saw child, what the waters made you see!"

"I've already told you what I could between the ancient laws and my own visions," she retorted. "The rest is yours to decide." She narrowed her eyes. "I think you know there is more to me than it seems. Now, will you stop me trying to save Middle-Earth?"

The queen froze dead.

"One day, Vanimelda of the Noldor, Vanyar and Teleri, we shall meet again. My son will neither forget nor stop in his search for you. And when the time comes, you will help us when the darkness you speak of comes."

 _This one's wildly ambivalent,_ Vanimelda thought. She served no one but herself and the ones she loved. She might not even serve her people entirely. Vanimelda would neither count on nor trust her.

"Go," she said quietly. Her eyes burned with power. She raised her hand. Light seemed to shimmer and glow on her bare skin. "Go."

The word was imbued with a strength that astounded the queen. She was frozen in shock, and Vanimelda's icy violet eyes.

"That was far too close," her mother's voice spoke aloud.

Vanimelda nodded. "I don't like it one bit. She will want something of me. And the way the prince looked at me last night…"

"I don't trust him either," her mother said. "But you have to grow stronger, now. There's an illuminated skull- of all things- on the doorstep of those two that enslaved you."

"Excellent. So I don't need to go back to Sapzôr. But somehow I get the feeling I won't have seen the last of her."

"Trust your senses, Vanimelda. She is more than what she seems. The queen might have known more about her, and is more ancient, but Sapzôr has free rein to do what she wants. An elven sorceress is constrained compared to Sapzôr who can bewitch and destroy entire countries as she chooses, though she is less powerful."

"Does this have something to do with the fact that she is a human, well born at least- I have heard Thuringwethil and Dragluir infected humans to become their minions- and that humans may choose their destinies, the paths followed in their lives- and we can't?"

"Perhaps," her mother said. "We whose destinies are chosen by the All-Father and the Valar- our lives will linger forever, unless slain, and even then we may return from Mandos to walk on grasses green and breathe cool air once again. Not so with mortals- they live, they die, but always they may choose between right and wrong, between safe and dangerous, between what is hard and what is easy." Her mother sighed. "Technically speaking, we can make choices. That is something I've always wondered about- if we can make small choices and small choices can have big consequences, even without us knowing, how much in control are elves over their own destinies?"

"We'll never find _that_ out," Vanimelda said, rolling her eyes.

"You'll be surprised." Was the only reply.

Vanimelda paused. "Did my great-grandfather… His own mother died having spent all her energy giving him life and strength. He had seven sons and grew to be the mightiest of the Eldar in the height of their glory. And yet… She must have decreed his fate."

"Yes." Her mother sighed. "I admit, I _loathed_ Míriel Serindë as a young girl. I never will deny that. I thought if I ever saw her in Mandos, the most horrible things would come to pass, and I would make her eternity a torment- if she condemned the doom upon my father, uncles, cousins and grandfather- her own son and grandsons, and her great-grandsons, I can certainly force her to share the doom which she was responsible for in part. I will make her wish her _fëa_ were in the void with Morgoth, and even then she would know no peace from me. She ran and refused to return at the earliest opportunity, even though she could. If it were me, I would claw my way out of the void and out of Angband and Utumno with my bare nails to reach you, and enwrap you in safety. I have endured things which no one could imagine- I was forced to, and yet Míriel was too cowardly to face life. She did not wish to face her offspring. My grandfather accused his wife of abandoning her own family the last they spoke. I knew he remembered Míriel- and that this influenced many of his decisions. Finwë was the only parent he remembered. He needed to avenge him."

"Did you make her suffer?" Vanimelda asked. "I would have. She deserves that and worse."

When she was young, Vanimelda had been told the story of her mother's life. Yes, there was one person whom they could loathe- although Fëanáro and his sons made the decision to take the oath, there was one person who really- should have suffered for it- Míriel Serindë. Of course, what she had felt…

"She deserved far worse than a painless death," Vanimelda said. "She should have lived to endure what she forced you too. She must have known it was coming after all."

"I think she did but she did not know the magnitude of it," her mother sighed. "She just didn't want to see it. In any case, she's come back to life."

Vanimelda stopped dead. "What?!"

"Mandos has released her." Was Estela's reply.

Vanimelda started. "He can't have!"

"He has. And I forgave her." Was what her mother said.

"How could you? How could _he_?" Hissed Vanimelda. No matter. She wouldn't. If she ever crossed paths with Míriel Serindë either living or dead..."

"Vanimelda," her mother said gently. "She did not know the magnitude and the consequences of her actions."

"But she should have known better at what a mother does! She's either stupid, or she should have known that at least if she lived again, there would be a chance of her making certain that Fëanáro would not have made such decisions."

"Maybe." Estela said. "But you're not the only one to react with hate. Míriel may be the most loathed woman in Valinor. Even my grandfather is forgiven compared to her. Everyone is disgusted and enraged. Especially the parents who have heard what she knew and did and arrived to Valinor from Middle-Earth by swan-ships or through Mandos. She is so ostracised and hated, and yet... They speak my name with love, reverence and awe, and I would not be alive if not for her. Neither would my father, grandfather, uncles and cousins. And I would not have met Indis. And my relatives, including your paternal grandfather, Artanis and Findaráto would not have been born."

Vanimelda sniffed. "She has to live with it. You all did. She came back too late. If she wanted to stay gone, she really should have for the whole of eternity."

Estela sighed. "I never thought I would pity her."

"You shouldn't." Vanimelda said. "She deserved far worse. She can take a few turning backs and glares. I take it that Finwë didn't come back?"

Her mother sighed again. "No. Not with Indis and Míriel both alive because he qas married to both. Indis has gone back to live in Valmar of her birth. I adore her. We shared a bond that shamefully I admit, I never had, or will have with Míriel."

"Too bad," Vanimelda said sarcastically. "She's alone. She has no one to comfort her. Well, neither did you! Or me! Or your cousins! Who is she to feel sorry? To me, every tear is too small for a step towards compensation."

Her mother sighed and said nothing. "I hated her as much as you, if not more," she reminded Vanimelda. "Nothing can be done about what she has done. There is only the journey to peace. To overcoming all obstacles and evil. That is what I have always intended- for you, even if I did not think for myself."

Vanimelda sighed. She sat down on a boulder. "I… I just… There are good people, and there is evil. Evil thrives and goes uncurbed and unpunished. What about the good? A thousand punishments for every _single_ terrible thing, compared to nothing given to every good deed."

Estela sighed. "Yes, it does seem like that."

Vanimelda sighed again. "I need to sleep. My bedroll…" Almarië handed it to her from the pack. "Thank you. Amil, will you…"

"Of course," Estela said. "Rest well, _Melda Seldë_."

The sun was shining high in the sky when Vanimelda awoke.

She stared at the dawn. She wondered and marvelled at it, as if for the first time.

 _Is this what the first Men felt when they awoke?_ She thought. _What my family felt when they beheld Laurelin's last flower rise in the sky for the very first time?_

She stood and Almarië smiled up at her. They both rolled up the bedroll and Vanimelda gave out rations to Almarië. They chewed on the _lembas_. Vanimelda was brought back sorrowfully to the times when Vorondo gave her the _lembas_ and they ate together alone. They drank fresh spring water. Here was a blueberry bush, nearby.

"I need to bathe," Vanimelda said. "There's a hot spring nearby." Almarië replied, looking up from the piece of lembas, she was munching. She bit in it again. "It's a good stroke of fortune."

Vanimelda sighed. She went to the stream found the spring and bathed. She found a piece of bark, and brought the scented oils she had in her pack, and scrubbed herself with it. She did the same to her hair, using a comb she had brought. She felt so excellent.

But something was not right. As she soaked, Vanimelda tried to ignore the lingering feeling that something was not right. She scrubbed and soaked herself. She sluiced dirt, grime and whatever else from her. Even if the water was cold, she would have luxuriated in it. She barely had any time for herself in Sapzôr's house.

But she knew she was being watched. She stopped as she finished bathing.

Her feelings were confirmed when Almarië shouted, "Melda!"

"I take it this thing is more liberal to your people and customs than it is for mine." She said.

She turned.

There was the Avari Prince.

He was handsome to say the least, magnificently so. His face looked even more carved and chiselled, his features regal and patrician, and his milky skin gleamed in the twilight. His hair gleamed a sharp contrast, the deep black, though not as black as Vanimelda's tresses, black as pitch or jet soaked in water, and it looked that shiny. And his smile. It was like the sickle of an orc's blade, except whiter and cleaner, but utterly devious and untrustworthy. He was incredibly tall, dressed in black and emerald-green. His hair is pulled back and combed, he wore a short tunic, trousers and a gambeson doublet, different to the style of the Sindar, in the fact that the colours were darker, more subtle to blend in with the forest's foliage, and that the clothes were even more close-fitting with no excess material to go free and snag in any branches or be spotted, yet covering the pale skin remarkably well.

He was smiling at her. She looked acidly at him. He smiled still.

She turned to face him. A good thing that the water distorted any view he might have had of her naked figure. But he might have seen her undressing. Still, she refused to be cowed by him.

She was done soaking, sluicing and washing, anyway. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." He smiled, which didn't reach his eyes which were dark with a frightening desire not uncommon in the eyes of dragons upon their hoard. "We care mostly about survival and staying inconspicuous."

"So why are you talking to me?" Vanimelda demanded. "I'm not exactly inconspicuous. And I doubt talking to me, would help you in that. I was sent to your people on an errand. I have accomplished that. Why do you follow?"

"I'm just… terribly interested in you, I suppose." He smiled, slyly, leaning against a tree trunk.

She scoffed. "Interest doesn't get you anywhere. In any case, your people and mine have very different laws regarding a person's interest. The last time our kinds were bonded together… well, surely you must know of Ardehel Ar-Feiniel the White Lady of the Noldor and Eöl. Look how well that turned out. Her family didn't like the way he took her either."

He arched an elegant eyebrow. "Aredhel and Eöl… Hmmm. Their story does not ring familiar in too many ears. Fortunately, I seem to know their tale. She died didn't she? And so did he? And their son was a traitor?"

"So you do know the tale," she said icily. She didn't dare mention to him that Aredhel was related to her by blood. "And you know how it offended her family. Taking a maiden- not entirely unwilling, but without the blessing of her closest relations- does not win any prizes. A pity that, despite being of the same race, we think differently. And I'm no romantic fool, I think I should warn you of that."

"So not a romantic," he mused. "And not one to fall easily to charm. There's no way to win you, is there?"

"I prefer to live a free maiden," Vanimelda said icily. "As always." She gave him an icy smile.

He gave a mock sigh. "So I see I must find another way to win you." He gave a crooked smile now. "How did you do it?"

"Hmm?" She asked. "The enchantments, the ones that were supposed to prevent you from leaving the caverns." He explained. He cocked his head to one side. "Aredhel didn't and couldn't fight against the enchantments that stopped her from leaving Nan Elmoth. How did you?"

She stared at him, then began laughing hysterically. She laughed so hard, even though it really wasn't funny. So her mother's protection had worked after all, not that she'd doubted it.

"Oh, I am full of surprises," she said calmly. Her eyes were hard as diamonds. She reached to the bank and pulled the towel. Her eyes were acid and never left him for a second. "You'd be a fool not to know that."

Inwardly, she cringed. But she slowly waded towards the bank, pulling the towel tight around her, securely knotted at the end.

He didn't take his eyes off her, for a single second. The water steamed as it came off her skin, leaving it glowing so silver-white, brighter than a pearl. The droplets glittered like tiny diamonds dropping off her skin leaving it to shimmer once the steam cleared. Her hair gleamed the deepest black, deeper than polished jet, and the light flashed reflecting off it. All the while her violet eyes flashed at him.

She knew what he was thinking. She wasn't stupid. And her mother, despite communicating through spirit alone, told her many things.

Including things like this. This was why she was supposed to remain hidden.

"Are you going to stare at me all night?" She asked.

"All eternity if I can," he said with a sly smile.

"You're clever," she admitted. "But first you'll have to catch up to me. And then you have to catch me… And to fight me."

Vanimelda's eyes burned violet-purple right through him.

"I will live life on my own terms, as much as I can," Vanimelda said in a very deadly voice. "Apart from what part of my destiny has already been decreed." She smiled. "Now, why don't you leave? I'm sure they'd be missing you."

And she used her _fëa_ to call upon the spirit that she desperately needed.

After, somehow, her mother managed to cast an illusion of sorts, Vanimelda hurried away, dressing, picking up Almarië and her things and scurrying off.

"What about Sapzôr?" She asked Almarië.

"Forget about her," the doll scowled. "And if she hunts me down?" Vanimelda asked.

Almarië scoffed. "She was planning to do it anyway, once you'd left and thought you were safe. The test of your courage has only just begun. You'll need more than courage, however, to survive the challenges ahead of you. Damn it, child. Your mother and I would rather have you live a safe and _boring_ life, than this. But we have no choice. You are one of the Eldar."

She shrugged. "Now, you must leave and stay quiet for a few centuries." Almarië said. "One day intruders will come."

"Intruders?" Vanimelda asked bewildered. "What are you-" but she was cut off.

A vision passed before her eyes. A pool of steaming hot water- the hot spring. Two men. A _net_ , an _apple_ and a _wolf_? What in the world?

And a man. Tall and noble, undeniably, intimidatingly strong and proud. In armour. He wore an emblem on his sur-coat over chain-mail. The White Tree of Isildur. Surrounded by seven stars.

"It will be a while." Almarië said grimly. "Don't trust them, though. Not completely. Especially not him."

Vanimelda looked in alarm at Almarië. "Are they evil?" "No." Almarië said grudgingly. "But I wouldn't trust them, even though I would make a point to get along with them."

Vanimelda rushed to get away as quickly as possible. She did not notice strange birds nearby. Crows. With dark, dark wings, looking at her with beady black eyes, like onyx dipped in water, reflecting her image as she hurried away, feeling the cold chill of foreboding in her heart.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

A Bigger Issue than Previously Imagined

High up, an eagle called. High, high above any town, city or village of men, dwarves and elves. High above the land and seas, higher- far higher- than even the clouds.

It was no ordinary eagle.

For one thing it was gigantic, and that was a very big understatement.

And the eagle's eyes saw everything.

As did his master.

The blue gaze of Manwë, Lord of the Skies, King of the Ainur on Arda saw through the eyes of his eagle. Bluer than any sapphire, and hair a mass of gold, like the sun.

"So the game is set," he said calmly, his voice resounding throughout the Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom. "The child is almost ready."

The other Ainur watched him in silence.

"She will be kept safe until she matures. And then, when the time comes, they will find her?"

Many of the Valar visibly stiffened. Tulkas, the mighty champion of the Ainur, leaned forwards on his throne. "Who?" He asked.

"None that shall harm her," the assurance came from soft-spoken Irmo. He had hazy light glowing all around him, and his hair and eyes were shades of hazy gold and dreamy blue.

"They will find her soon enough though," Irmo's voice hardened slightly, a rare thing for the usually serene Vala.

Tulkas suppressed a frown. "What will happen to her?" His voice sounded fearsome- and although he appeared so in appearance, his voice was normally very jovial.

Irmo looked to Vairë, his sister-in-law.

"The threads of time will reveal all, soon. But Estela's daughter, and Gil-Galad's, has a great destiny, like never before."

* * *

Vanimelda opened her eyes.

Really, it was all getting ridiculous.

She would have to decide her destiny soon enough.

Whether or not she wanted to be another Lúthien or an Estela.

Or whether to make her own path, as that sounded more appealing.

But she didn't have the Gift of Men of forging her own destiny. The least she could do was to make the best of it, and give people a reason to remember her name.

"I have to learn to fight," she said.

Almarië sighed. "Of course you do."

Vanimelda shakily got up- shakily for an elf, anyway.

She went around the forest gathering things. "I don't have a proper bow." She said.

Almarië raised her eyebrow.

"The one I got is very rudimentary. I need something like the ones the Galadhrim used, in the Golden Wood. I need arrows. Good grief, I need _loads_ of arrows!"

Almarië actually rolled her eyes. "It's about time." She said.

* * *

Sapzôr sniffled.

The wench hadn't come back with what she asked for. Typical. She had scarpered, and now even her magic wasn't enough to locate her.

No, as far as Sapzôr could figure out, there was strong, powerful magic protecting the girl- Kráka. Whatever was the source of that power, and who was casting it, she didn't know.

All she knew was that the girl had disappeared.

And so Sapzor wept bitterly. Not because she missed the girl- she would have _loved_ to have consumed her youth and beauty just as she did her other victims! But also because of what she had lost.

What she would never regain.

Few knew of Sapzôr's origins. She was born in Númenor. In the reign of Tar-Telperiën, second ruling Queen of Númenor- though in the last years of her reign. Her early life went straight to the reign of Tar-Minastir.

Sapzôr had been born to a peasant woman, in the fringes of Númenórean society. They were poor, but like many in that age of Númenor, and of the race of Dwarves and Elves to this day, even the poorest had plenty to eat, a truly comfortable and nice place to live and more than enough time and money for leisure or anything else they liked.

Sapzôr's father, however, fell when Tar-Minastir and Gil-Galad went to war against the mysterious evil, now revealed to be Sauron. Her mother succumbed to grief, and despair. Misery clouded her, and soon she remarried to another person- a man- whom she did not love, but did it, because she was weak, unlike the Queens Tar-Telperiën and Tar-Ancalimë, and more akin Tar-Vanimeldë who would come later- something that enraged and disgusted Sapzôr enormously. Although one could point out that her mother was weakened by grief, ultimately it was Sapzôr- or Gimlîth- that was her secret, real name she had been given at birth- who suffered under the abuse of her stepfather, while her mother had slowly withdrawn from the world and her mental health declined. Often at times the girl found her mother staring blankly into space, often for days on end. She eventually stopped speaking. Stopped recognizing her own daughter. And Gimlîth's stepfather began abusing her, forcing her to slave for him and his friends, while they tormented her, and laughed mockingly. Then, they began violating the girl.

Eventually, Gimlîth had had enough. She stole a kitchen knife and slaughtered her stepfather and his goons as they lay wine-sodden. She was caught for the crime. When all was explained to them, they took her to the King's House- the royal palace in Armenelos, the capital of Númenor. Tar-Minastir had listened and even pitied the girl and understood her reasons. And there _was_ support for her, for what they did was evil in the eyes of any race in Arda. Still, one of her stepfather's boorish friends had been a wealthy and powerful noble. And his widowed mother had denied all accusations against her son. She was forceful, that woman, Sapzôr remembered. And powerful and wealthy, for money buys influence. Tar-Minastir saw Gimlîth as the victim in this, but the woman and her influence on some others, kicked up such a fuss that the king, unable but desiring to avoid more conflict- decided that Sapzôr was to be given a mild punishment- she was to be banished to an isolated island off the coast of Númenor, she would live in an Abbey, secluded in prayer for a number of years. Her mother stayed silent and blank throughout the entire sentence.

But what the King didn't know- for he had never set foot upon that island, nor did many people, including the members of his court- was that the Sisters of the faith, were living in the worst of run-down conditions, and that they had witches in their midst- they were under a spell and they were cursed. So Gimlîth, bitter and afraid, had been preyed upon by them. First, after seeing the awful, conditions, the poor meals, thin, ragged clothing, the filthy cells and vermin lying around. Disease was rampant, even for those who had the strong constitutions of the Númenóreans. So it was easy for the dark witches- remnants of Morgoth's evil who had been taught dark and unnatural arts (no doubt many like them as well as Sauron, influenced the King's Men), to draw young Gimlîth into their apparently warm and loving embrace. They added strength to her rage and hate. And soon she became the most powerful of all.

Powerful enough to seek revenge.

When she returned to the mainland, she began her work with the ones who had banished her. She set curses and spells, chanted dark magic, brewed evil potions, and spilled her own blood as well as that of animals and the ones she wanted to curse. She cursed the noblewoman who had caused her banishment. And the ones who supported her.

The noblewoman grew hideous and a terrible stench aroused around her with her illness. Same with all her kin. The children of her son all suffered and died of the plague. People avoided them. Their lands would not grow, and soon they suffered their own personal famine. But soon the magic proved too strong- like Gimlîth's hate- and the famine spread throughout a great deal of Númenor. Crops stopped growing. The ground grew cracked and dry, drained of moisture, and domesticated animals weakened and died. People starved.

And Tar-Minastir sought help from the elven sorcerers, like Elrond, his distant ancestor- a great and noble elf, mighty in his ways- and the great Gil-Galad, the High Elvenking. They sought out the root of the cause. The magic, they claimed, lay in a particular, vengeful sorceress- Gimlîth, now known as Sapzôr.

Realising belatedly, she had been hunted. The root of the magic drawn out, and then they realised the ones who taught her, were the former minions of Morgoth. Tar-Minastir ordered the Abbey burnt and the site re-blessed- a new Abbey was built. The witches were killed, and Sapzôr- who did not even know that her teachers were, in fact, Morgoth's minions in hiding- fled the mainland of Númenor.

She grew stronger, more bitter and vengeful. And she called on all the knowledge of her dark powers, and the essence of a particularly fair, deceased elf maiden- and created a potion. A dead elf's heart, and a number of ingredients including drops of her own blood mixed with milk. She drank it. And she received the source of her power. Beauty.

"My, my," a voice said. "Feeling sorry for yourself again, are we?"

Sapzôr looked up.

A burst of very pale, and very weak light appeared. It was very, very weak, and very, very faint, so weak in fact, it was transparent and not really there at all, but Sapzôr saw it.

She paled. "What- what do you want? Do you want to kill me?" She whispered through cold lips.

The figure, invisible to most mortals, within that unnatural light, chuckled softly. The voice was very faint.

"Now what use is that to me?" He sounded amused. "Especially when what you have is so close within your reach?"

"Please," she whispered, begging him. "Please, my lord. I- I have tried to bring you the girl, I- I r-really tried."

"And yet you sent her to the Dark Elves," the voice continued. "And now she has disappeared. Are you trying to make excuses, witch? Excuses why you would prefer to use the girl, to suck out her youth and beauty as you did your other victims- or consume her heart like you did the first time?"

Sapzôr could not look at the light. She felt herself trembling.

"Remember, we invented lies and deceit," the voice mused. "And we are powerful and far greater than you foolish mortals can ever hope to be- even you who have bargained for immortality."

Sapzôr shakily went on her knees. "Please. P-please, my lord-"

"Get up," the voice hissed. And one might have thought this was not a voice suited for any form of amusement. "Your work is not half-done. For while I am still in this form, yet while I am slowly gaining strength, my patience is limited. You have no idea of the importance and power of the girl, foolish witch, to you, she was yet another potential source of nourishment." The person paused.

"Perhaps this will give you incentive to do better," it mused once more, and seemingly a hand fashioned out of slightly-thickened air, reached forwards and touched Sapzôr's face. Sapzôr screamed.

The side of her face seemingly seared white-hot and the flesh around it became mottled and wrinkled, flesh and skin drooping, turning old as well as ugly. It spread outwards, over her cheek, her eyes, her hair, which thinned and turned an uglier colour than before.

It radiated outwards and her body became as Vanimelda saw it for the first time. Except that it was much, much worst. More hideous and grotesque.

Malformed even, for the magic had seeped into her flesh and bones.

She collapsed in a heap of black cloth, sobbing and weeping.

"M-master," she sobbed. "Please."

"Get up." The voice responded. "You have treated this carelessly and disobeyed me. You have failed completely."

"Master," she sobbed hysterically, more insistently. "Please!"

"Only in the short-term," the voice hissed, musing. "Never in the long-term. Did you ever think, Sapzor, what you could have achieved in the long-term? Did you ever have any dreams apart from what you will achieve in the next month at the very least? Or do you never think to take your dreams and glory to the next level? You who have lived for hundreds of years… You disappoint me."

"Please, master," Sapzôr insisted, her hideous face, lifted towards the light. "Give me another chance. Let me try again."

"Failed," the 'master' sighed. "Failed and useless. I gave you this power, and yet you do nothing with this- nothing to accomplish for me,"

Sapzôr cried out, "Master, please!"

"Utterly useless. You have given nothing to me in return. Do you build up armies? Do you forge weapons? Do you seize territories? No, you only engage in petty squabbles within the human world. Do you breed orcs? No, you only look uglier and uglier after the power you drained wears off. Perhaps I should take it from you?"

"Master!" She screamed. "No!"

"You have proven worthless to me Sapzôr," the voice said coldly. "Do you know what happens to a human after hundreds of years? Even beyond the lifespan of Númenóreans? You stupid, little fool. What makes you say that you are of any use to me, especially now that you've let that little girl slip through your little fingers?"

There was a silence, except for Sapzôr's sobbing.

"Too late now," the voice continued. "You are worthless, useless and inefficient. Even a fool could see that. No. Go to the regions of the north of Arnor. Await my servants' coming, little witch, and perhaps I may change my mind about letting you possess great power- though you do not seem to want it."

"Master!" Sapzôr cried. "Please! I- I do want it."

The whole forest clearing was flooded with darkness and the thing- whatever it is- surged towards her. No longer light, but something dark- an orb of darkness, of malevolent, dark power.

"Then prove it," the voice hissed. "You were fooled by the girl, Sapzôr. I would not trust you with more information regarding her- yet. Make yourself useful, however, and I can return and trust you with greater power than a mere minion.

"For now, we lie patient. Waiting."

* * *

 _ **Truly sorry about the very long wait. I had a writer's block and I was seriously discouraged as well. The name Gimlîth means "Star-Lady" in Adûnaic. Tar-Telperiën and Tar-Ancalimë were the first two- and greatest ruling Queens of Númenor. Tar-Vanimeldë was another ruling queen, but she was more interested in arts and fashions than in ruling- she gave all that to her husband. As we can see, Gimlîth/Sapzôr may have a grudge against the male sex. As for the discussion of Abbeys, the Númenóreans must have had some form of prayer- the elves, humans (apart from Dark Númenóreans who worshipped Morgoth) and dwarves must have had a form of practiced religion. So I imagine it, like in Tolkien's works, to be medieval. Like the Faith of the Seven in**_ **A Song of Ice and Fire** _ **.**_

 _ **And yes, it's a short chapter, but the next chapter Vanimelda stops running and starts fighting. More action, finally!**_


	11. Chapter 11

_**If you want to skip the 'history of Arda' part, go past the third and fourth horizontal line. You might ask, why put this scene? Especially as I did it for 'Shieldmaiden' but the visions she receives during the initiation rite are immensely important to her destiny because, as known, elves don't choose their paths in life the way humans did.**_

* * *

Chapter Eleven

Vanimelda strung her bow.

The arrow was notched perfectly. She held it sideways.

Narrowing her eyes, more out of determination than concentration, Vanimelda knew she had little time.

The target had been placed further. She was pushing her limitations.

It had been hard to make a bow the way the Galadhrim used. But she managed it, with her mother's and Almarië's guidance.

"Remember, Vanimelda." Her mother said. "The Valar have deemed you to have a great destiny- as long as you do not forget yourself and what others have suffered."

She released the arrow on the bowstring. It shot off into the distance.

Vanimelda gritted her teeth in frustration. So close.

"No one starts off an expert marksperson." Her mother mused. "But impatience only takes the arrow further from the target. Your frustration is understandable, Seldë," her voice grew stern. "But although anger and frustration lend strength it also lends blindness. It is like a double-edged blade- as easy to kill you with as it is to slaughter an enemy."

"Yes Mother," she grumbled in Westron.

Her mother chuckled and sighed. "Oh, Melda."

Vanimelda notched another arrow. "Try again," her mother advised.  
"Can you see the target clearly?" "Yes Amil," she muttered. "Good, now use only the tension you need to shoot. Your shoulders are to tense- direct all the tension in your body towards the arrow, but for what keeps you standing firmly on the ground. Point your tension- delicately- towards the arrow's direction- the direction you want it to go. And keep it there. Focus what you have, and don't think too much. If it helps, your arrow's feathers- keep it at mouth level. But that would impeded flexibility."

The arrow shot off.

Almarie gathered fallen branches, bracken and other things, including fallen forest matter to create dummies with the consistency of a man's, an elf's, or a dwarf's bodies, as well as orcs', trolls' and other creatures of evil. There, Vanimelda's mother taught her to spar by showing her several techniques and movements.

"It will be a while before we spar together," she admitted. She was not, after all, actually there.

Vanimelda kept practising non-stop, until even her mother and Almarië protested and told her to rest and eat. She learned to shoot a bow over hundreds of yards- farther than any human and dwarven archer and most elves, whilst shooting from various different angles. She even managed to do so on horseback. She did so at such speeds and eventually with such accuracy, before Estela was satisfied in that she had exceeded all expectations.

She woke up one morning and found a horse- a fine strawberry roan- and learned to shoot from all sorts of angles, even bent backwards, whilst galloping, standing upright, or leaping through the air- her, the horse or both at the action- shifting and spinning around on the saddle. She thrived at the actions, at the extra riding lessons her mother gave her, and teaching the horse to fight as well- such as when surrounded by enemies, and picking up weapons that had fallen to the ground, while she caught them in mid-air.

She learned to throw a spear, how to parry and block and a number of other movements- on horseback, running and much more. She wished, painfully, with all her heart that her father could have been here to teach her. Not only could no evil withstand Aeglos, his spear, but he would have loved to have been there for her and so would she. Estela must have known this for she was saddened, yet she still pressed her daughter to go on. She even learned to catch a spear in mid-air, one that had strayed from its path or was targeting her, and spin it around before hurling it back at an enemy- usually the thrower- often a large distance away from her. She kept going and she kept on practicing. And Estela helped her. The shimmering form of her mother often appeared with a spear in hand to teach her. Estela hadn't used the spear as frequently as Ereinion Gil-Galad, the High Elvenking- Vanimelda's father- but she was more than capable. In fact, Ereinion had been the one to have taught her most of the tricks. Anyone would have recognized Gil-Galad in the way Estela moved and used a spear.

Then she learned how to move on with the sword.

Or rather, two swords. Her mother taught her to fight.

They started doing more than hacking at dummies. Again her mother's form appeared with glowing swords. First one, then two. She learned how to fight in all manner of ways- leaping, jumping, spinning, running, galloping on a horse, with multiple opponents- although how Estela managed to teach her that when she wasn't there herself was completely remarkable. Knives and daggers also came, but Vanimelda, like Estela, preferred twin swords, or a bow and arrows.

It took a long time, before Estela was satisfied in the slightest. Still, it wasn't enough. Like all Fëanorians, her mother had high standards, Vanimelda thought. And the fact that she was the only pupil to a teacher that wasn't physically there made it all the more harder. Spinning, blocking, leaping, yet managing to move like silkiest of water and the lightest of air, jumping, making sure that any opponents would be killed off as quickly as possible. In any sort of conditions- dense forest with little or no smooth ground, on the battlefield with multiple opponents- with a shield, which Vanimelda hated but tolerated and managed to master. It was tough, back-breaking work. Humans would have collapsed at this point.

It took a very long time for her to master any of this. Finally her mother deemed Vanimelda capable enough- or rather excellent- to spar with her.

"Get ready," Estela's shimmering, glowing silver form stood poised.

Vanimelda took a deep breath.

Finally they charged and the swords clashed, even though one wasn't really there.

It was all a blur of light and flashes. Bending in every angle, spinning and leaping from and to all directions. Barely catching the opponent before the swords got them. Although orcs would not stand a chance, Estela was determined that even the level of elves would not exceed her daughter Vanimelda.

"Never allow yourself to grow lax, Seldë," she told her. "Even if your opponents don't meet your standards. Never grow over-confident and arrogant in the slightest. You hope and pray for the best, but prepare for the worst."

Their swords rang and flashed in the air. Their hair spun, Vanimelda's had grown past her knees by this stage. But as an elf she managed to keep it out of her opponents' ways, though she had to be careful not to be caught off guard like Glorfindel did with the Balrog.

She had to learn to do things faster than ever now. And she had to whip out weapons in no time.

Finally her mother was proud.

* * *

One night she went to sleep.

She had always slept on bracken and thistledown as well as her bedroll, ever since she fled Sapzôr. Almarië shook her awake.

Blinking, Vanimelda wondered if it was time already to start training. Honestly, it had been months now, nearly a year, and her mother seemed more than satisfied recently. But something was up. Almarië handed her an armour and told her to bathe and dress, taking her deep into the forest afterwards, to parts she had never been before, until they finally came to a stop in a clearing.

Her mother's form was waiting for her at grove.

She stood beside a great ash tree.

Estela regarded her daughter.

"Elenñaltë Vanimelda," she said finally. She looked at her daughter sadly, but with pride and joy at the same time. "You come before me a nearly a grown maiden now. I claim you as my own- my child not merely of my body, but my spirit. Though this was not the path I wanted you to follow, nonetheless, the All-Father has decreed, and the Guardians of this world, the Ainur have decreed, that this path you will walk- the path of a shieldmaiden."

A _shieldmaiden_! It was what she had dreamed of- joining her mother and yet….

So this was a shieldmaiden's initiation rite.

Estela beckoned to her. "Come," she said, guiding her over to the great ash tree.

It was one of the tallest ash trees she had ever seen.

"To fulfil your destiny and prepare for it, you must journey high up into the tree," Estela explained. "And within the branches, once you have rested your body, confront what visions would reveal the paths to undertake. And once that path has been revealed to you, your descent into the spirit world will take you beyond- to see the greater picture should it reveal it to yourself- of the world's fate and your contribution to such fate. You will face trials, you must overcome the challenges. You will discover and learn things you have never imagined. And once you have overcome these challenges, you shall awake from your trance and come down from high, and tell me all that you have seen."

She gave her a cup to drink. It was made of barley, she realised. Flavoured with mint. Vanimelda downed the whole drink.

"Climb," her mother instructed. Apparently, unlike what most people believed, there were no hallucinogenic mushrooms or herbs added to the mix. They did not need it.

Vanimelda took a deep breath and began to climb.

She climbed all the way, avoiding branches and leaves, high into the treetop.

It was easier for an elf, and yet, it was still challenging. This did not stop Vanimelda, though. She kept climbing.

Higher and higher she climbed. Suddenly her vision began to grow hazier and hazier, with silvery-white light. She blinked.

Finally, on a good, thick, solid branch, close to the trunk, she nestled, curling up.

She did not know when her vision changed into that from the place she was at- the great tree- to somewhere else entirely, but she saw it.

All around her, was a plain of grass. First, there were wildflowers, bursting all around, in the green. But as she looked and as she looked harder- she didn't know when they started to appear, or when the wildflowers and grass started to die, or when the golden sunlight became dark, but soon the ground was stained with blood.

All around her were the bodies of elves, dwarves, men, orcs, trolls and Uruk-hai. And other creatures. Ents, goblins and so forth.

And she stood speechless and frozen, anguish welling up in her, until she pushed it down.

Then an army approached. In the distance there was an enemy army. Dressed in black, iron armour, and carrying scraps of red banners with a single eye painted upon them.

The eye of Sauron.

They were orcs, trolls, Dark Númenóreans, and ordinary humans in Sauron's service. And they were all marching- an army so vast, she thought it could drink whole rivers dry.

The sky was blood-red. A Darkness grew in the distance.

And then things got even stranger.

Right behind her- not far at all- was an army of her own.

Eyes wide Estela saw them all raise their weapons- swords and spears in salute. They were saluting… _her_.

She didn't even realise she held a spear in her hand. No, it changed to a sword. Two swords, one in each hand. And since when was she on horseback?! She was riding a pure white warhorse. One sword was raised up high.

Estela gasped. The army was approaching. She had to meet them!

Just before the enemy army clashed, everything went black.

Then she was somewhere else entirely.

She was on a meadow. No, it was countless meadows and valleys. She blinked. She was standing- no horse, now. And she walked forwards.

She gasped.

There was a city, by the likes of the cities of Gondolin and Doriath of old, rising high into the skies. And in the distance, were more cities, all glittering like the brightest of gems and stars, polished and rising high into the clouds. Cities of different kinds but of the greatest beauty the likes of which even the elves of Valinor, even her forefather Fëanáro had never envisioned.

This can't have been in any place she knew in Middle-Earth. And yet… It did not feel like Valinor either.

There, outside the city, just as it did in Lindon, armies sparred, drilling and practicing fighting movements and styles just like her father did, just as her mother taught her.

"Come to inspect, my lady?" The voice came from her right. She turned sharply and there was a young _elleth_ , smiling at her and bowing her head in reverence.

"The troops await your inspection, Lady Princess." She gaped. "The cities are restless. The whole realm is."

 _What in Arda?_

She spun around, only to find herself with….

It was another plain, but barren, completely barren, riddled with poisonous ash, dust, bits of crushed and crumbled rock, and bits of burnt wood.

The sky was totally darkened by clouds.

There was a mountain- no, a volcano, blasting lava from the top…

And a dark tower. And there was an eye, wrought of flame, on top of it.

She almost screamed.

She was in Mordor. And Sauron's eye was upon her.

The Plains of Gorgoroth where her father died.

But her fear and terror vanished replaced by burning anger. She tempered it, though, remembering what her mother said.

She raised the shield in one hand, her sword in the other. And she charged.

A group of orcs appeared out of nowhere, and screeching, they charged towards her. She dodged and spun skilfully, slicing them into corpses as she spun. A troll appeared. It roared and charged clumsily, towards her. She dodged the swing of its club, and leapt sideways, running up the troll's arm. Spinning onto its head and slicing her sword into its thick skull.

She leapt off as it fell. And on she ran.

More things came up. Dragons. Balrogs, Lindworms, evil giants. Vampires, Werewolves. More and more things appeared, so foul and twisted and evil.

They all leapt towards her.

She ran gracefully. She dodged one heavy giant, threw a knife at his head, flew into the air, and slashed a vampire's wings. The thing screeched and fell, but not before she used its back as a springboard to leap higher.

The Nazgûl appeared. They screamed.

The Balrogs slashed their whips. She dodged, spinning in mid-air, and held her sword straight towards the neck of the winged beast of the nearest Nazgûl. It screeched, and she twisted her imbedded sword, steering it towards the nearest Balrog. It crashed into it, and they toppled, the Nazgûl screaming, but it did not affect her. She refused to be affected by it.

She jumped and spun in the air, slashing more vampire bats, their screeching ringing in her ears as they fell. A troll roared, bellowing towards her, raising its club. Vanimelda was not cowed. A knife found its way into its eye.

She jumped onto the head of another beast- an evil giant and pulled her bow and an arrow from her back. She shot a werewolf down, before shooting down the giant itself.

Orcs shot arrows at her, she dodged. She spun her sword, the way her mother taught her. The arrows were sliced, blocked, or completely avoided. She shot arrows upon the orcs themselves.

But it wasn't enough. They started pouring in, enemies from the masses. She needed to get to the ultimate goal. She couldn't be distracted. Minions were nothing compared to the Dark Lord himself, and that was what she needed to get. She didn't know how, but she had to escape to that tower first.

She had to get to the tower.

And as another Nazgûl came flying in, she leapt, bouncing off the head and slicing the wraith and steering its mount towards the dark tower, before she leapt, swords drawn and poised….

And everything went black again.

* * *

She was standing somewhere far from the place where her parents died.

It was somewhere… dark. Long, like a corridor, she sensed.

It was a long, carpeted corridor. The place was black, it must have been made of shiny, black stone, like obsidian. There was a ceiling so high, she could not see the top- it was shrouded in darkness. Everything was shrouded in darkness, but strangely she could see more than well enough. Even if she were not an elf, she had the feeling she would be able to see and navigate her way clearly using her other senses. Even a human would not trip, stumble or fall blindly the way they would expect. It was dark, and yet it was not.

It wasn't an evil darkness, not like in Utumno, Angband and Mordor.

There was nothing evil about this place.

Then, that was when she noticed that there were balls of light- like fire, all around she gaped. They were balls of fiery light alright, like glowing gas of stars, floating around, changing colour, from bright white, to pale sea-green, to light lilac, to cool blues. She could see things in front of her. Floating.

She recognized the glyphs of Rumil's Sarati, her forefather's Tengwar, Daeron's Cirth, Dwarven runes, human scripts… All floating in front of her.

She stared at one. It was the Quenya word for Star of the Sea. It sparkled, and glowed, then danced off hurrying to join the others.

Then bright golden glow fell upon the whole place.

She felt her skin illuminated. It was gold and silver both. It took a long time for her to realise she was the centre of the glow.

 _How is that possible?_

She didn't even notice every surface of her skin was both shimmering and glowing. Her hair gleamed and shone brighter than polished jet or diamonds. Her eyes were utterly luminous.

If anyone were to look upon her they would think that she was the most beautiful creature they had ever seen. But Vanimelda didn't see a thing, and she decided to go forwards.

She turned to look at the walls.

But wait. Something was up.

There were pictures. No, _moving_ _images_ , scenes on the walls. But they can't have been real. They were too Magnificent, spectacular and breath-takingly beautiful to be real. And yet…

They could not have been mere pictures on the walls. As her eyes watched, they seemed to move.

Too late did she realise they were actual tapestries. Weavings. Made not only of the thread of fabric, but of light, mingling and becoming one with the cloth, giving out a hazy glow.

This meant…

A horrifically icy chill and a jolt of shock resounded through her. These were Vairë's tapestries. She was in the Halls of Mandos.

It was black, the first part.

But she could make out something…. Or Someone….

Eru Ilúvatar- Father of them all.

Then light burst forth- glowing light, not unlike the balls of fiery light in the halls, yet seamless and whole as well.

And she didn't know when she stopped seeing pictures on the walls and started seeing the events taking place for real, but suddenly, she saw beings of light solidifying- barely though they were incorporeal- though they were still translucent- and forming minds and spirits of their own. They were beings of such light, powerful, pure and bright, unextinguished. Then she heard singing.

Well, ' _heard_ ' wasn't the right word to describe it. Then again, no one could describe with words of the events that transpired. She knew they were singing, she could feel it, hear it, but not _physically_. It was soundless music, more beautiful, wondrous and powerful than anything any elf, human or dwarf could conjure up. Yet no mortal mind could ever process it, nor could any earthly creature comprehend the power and beauty and strength if such song. The magnificent perfection and beauty was nothing less of an extension of the divinity of the All-Father.

She could feel it deep within her heart, mind, _fëa_ and _hröa_. It was so powerful and beautiful, she nearly wept.

Light sprung forth into existence. She could see things.

A powerful vision that had yet come to past. And yet…

A chord struck. Something broke to the magnificent perfection and powerful beauty. A dark chord. A broken one. A shattered note which shattered through the song as a whole, marring it. It was never the same again. The All-Father stopped the music.

There was someone else there. Something growing, solidifying more and more that it became as dense as a black hole- so dense no light could escape. Melkor. She knew and it filled her with ice.

Somehow, Vanimelda managed to look away. Her eyes did not linger.

But she did see the creation of Eä. The moment when Eru All-Father gave out the soundless, yet powerfully echoing order and the beings of light toppled and fell, diving and swooping gracefully from the Heavens, from the Timeless Halls, and down, falling like shooting stars, but much, much brighter and purer, and the All-Father stretched out with His Power and a swirl appeared in the darkness of the void where the Ainur was headed. The music that had been made suddenly solidified and took form, plunging straight into the centre of the empty cosmos. There it thickened and solidified even more, taking shape and form, turning hard.

Something burst all of a sudden, whole galaxies, nebulae, swirling light, like Varda's stars swimming and flooding the whole cosmos with light whereas previously there had been only darkness. Something much brighter and more beautiful than the anything made by artifice could ever be.

Eä. And within it…

And suddenly Vanimelda saw it all.

Rock. Rough, barren rock, a train of asteroids, formed, and an even larger, more barren, rougher rocky expanse that seemed endless. First there was nothing but glowing, white-yellow-hot substance, like molten metals and rock- wait, no it _was_ metal and rock, there was gas swirling around it, thickening, almost as hot as the metal, spinning in the darkness. It moved closer and closer towards the molten metal in the form of a flat oval disc, spinning and surrounding it, before covering it completely, solidifying and turning dark. _Arda_ , Vanimelda thought.

Something also like burning fire filled it deep inside its core, cutting through its crust and sinking deep within.

Rough, harsh and jagged rocks jutted out towards the sky which was covered with poisonous ash, gas, smoke and steam, a dirty red which would make blood look clean. The earth moved and thrusted all of a sudden, sharply and suddenly, shaking in such a terrifying manner, quivering, violent, frightening and trembling in a truly deadly way.

Lava burst through the rock, jolting, jumping, boiling, leaping high into the air.

There were no bodies of water. Only red-gold lava. There were seas, oceans, falls, lakes and rivers full of lava. Only molten rock and fire. Toxic gas, so poisonous rose to the sky.

The world was so frightening, so violent and deadly, so terrifying.

And then suddenly, static appeared. Like lightning, she thought. Or electricity. It pulsed and cracked touching and reaching out to brush everything. A brilliant display of light and life. It affected the rising volcanoes, the rock and magma, the air, everything in the atmosphere. And everywhere, it exploded. Sparks and sprays of lava were sent flying into the air, as if they had life of their own. Mountains and volcanoes rose. The rock softened, tenderized and mixed with other substances to become earth. Lightning and energy of all kinds went together and took shape, colours burst forth. Mountains- the first kinds- appeared.

No, it was the Power of the All-Father and the Ainur.

The mountains rose higher, the first soil emerged touched by energy that appeared to be veins of light and lightning.

And out of the burnt-orange-and-red gas, a river emerged, which turned into an ocean. Amidst that, the dry land, now softened, nourished by the waters and no longer barren, rose up. A peninsula. Or was it a bay?

Steadily, the gas cleared and became clean and fresh filled with strong energy to sustain the life to come. The air turned a greyish-blue, and soon more land emerged. It rose higher and higher and appeared slightly green- life was growing. The grey hint in the sky was growing into something else- turning into clouds. The sky emerged, blue and clear as she remembered it. The water was just as clear, and the green of vegetation grew upon the surfaces of the soil. The mountains and Arda's crust shifted and grew in height constantly. It never stopped, she noted. Always kept growing, always rising.

The north whitened turned to frost as ice crystals descended upon it as the sky darkened and greyed up there. The clouds kept moving ahead.

That was when she saw the Ainur. They had taken shape, now, physical form. They were a part of this- this was what the All-Father did and made them do.

They were shaping things the way they envisioned it to be.

Aulë was there, tall and mighty in his form. He hammered and sparks flew from his hammer on the anvil of his forge. The mountains were chiselled. The rocks grew. The gems gave light and sparkle, many of them coloured.

Ulmo stretched out his arms. Although the king of the seas, was terrible and frightening to behold, Vanimelda knew from the stories she had heard when she was very young that he loved both men and elves. The blue-green waters rose and grew in depth and volume, mighty in power and strength, unrestrained and teeming with rich, energetic life. She saw Maiar in the water, nurturing shiny, round… _blobs_? Translucent or transparent blobs, brimming with a faint, weak light of their own in the dark depths of the water, nourished by the Ainur's power.

 _From where all life comes, from the high and the mighty, the smallest and the lowest was where we all rise,_ shethoughtsheheardavoicesayinherhead.

They shone and grew with a fluorescent light. They were alive, she noted. And suddenly they grew bigger and bigger, and strained as if trying to pull apart- which they eventually did. They pulled themselves in half as she watched. And they grew and split apart again and again.

Then as she watched they grew into something else entirely. They became larger, less transparent and more opaque, stretching longer and wider, growing and sprouting new features, like beady black eyes, a thin, wide mouth, sprouting fins, gills and scales- fish. They moved, no longer restricted in their movements, swimming with ease as the laughing Maiar delighted. She heard Ulmo's chuckle, as he proceeded to tell the other Valar and Maiar of the creatures' growth.

The fish leapt, and she saw it emerge from the water. She saw birds in flocks sweeping across the skies.

Then one fish's fins solidified further and hardened, becoming more solid and stocky, but still lean and limber. The gills sank into its flesh and the legs grew outwards. It changed. It was an amphibian and it emerged from the waters.

Vanimelda saw it climb out and she looked up and saw the Ainur celebrate. Yavanna spread her long arms and life grew. Green vegetation grew higher and higher, stronger and taller. It sprouted seeds. She nourished and nurtured them, encouraging them to grow stronger, faster and healthier. Vána Ever-Young danced upon the grass and flowers of different lovely flowers sprung from the green of the meadows, valleys, trees, plants and bushes.

The amphibians who had all begun to emerge, changed. They grew sleeker, longer and leaner. They changed colours. Some of them sprouted scales again, like their ancestors in the lakes, rivers, oceans and seas. Forked tongues darted out between sharp teeth. They became harder in substance and some of them grew patterns, and colours.

Then they grew larger, even larger, stronger and stouter, packing in dense muscle and bone, their scales retreated. Their noses grew and expanded, many having snouts. Then hair started to sprout on the surface of their skins- hides covered in fur. Ears grew. Tails changed shape. Teeth changed.

Oromë grinned as he saw them and upon his steed, Nahar, he encouraged them to run. Run as fast as the winds could carry them. Some of them had longer legs now, and had learned to stand straight, but not upright. They ran. Nessa, his sister, danced with joy and Tulkas laughed.

Manwë spread out his arms and the winds blew in strength, the Great and gigantic Eagles called. The wind seemed to ride upon their mighty wings. It blew.

Varda was high on a mountain. Her Maiar stirred a great pot of something, it seemed. Swirling with so much light earthly eyes would be blinded. She scooped handfuls of them and breathed life, it seemed so they took on a glow of their own, before tossing them up high into the darkening sky. Her Maiar did the same. Meanwhile Aulë hammered something bright gold and silver, as the flames of his forge whooshed and grew high. It was ornately carved and elegant in its beauty and magnificence. Wait, there were _two_ things.

The Two Lamps.

Ormal and Illuin.

Varda filled their globes with light and they set one in the icy north, and the other in the warm south.

But something was wrong.

Vanimelda saw blood. Blood running up and flowing, staining and poisoning the rivers and streams. She saw animals, with wild and feral eyes, tearing at other more helpless animals with their fang-like teeth.

Tulkas sprang into action. Oromë mounted Nahar. It was someone. Someone in the distance. Someone who had watched them all this entire time and whose eyes glowed with hate and contempt, for all.

Morgoth. Or Melkor as he was then known.

They gave chase and Melkor fled.

But Melkor ran, hearing the laughter of Tulkas behind him. He ran in hate and fear.

He fled, and Tulkas and Oromë returned. The Ainur sang and danced, feast tables were set up and Nessa arrived in a white gown with flowers in her hair. She and Tulkas joined hands. They were married.

And after a while, Tulkas lay down and closed his eyes.

And Melkor took his chance.

Melkor. He had destroyed her entire family along with Sauron.

He smashed the Great Lamps.

Tulkas sprang awake and Oromë mounted Nahar. But Melkor had created a fortress. Vanimelda felt fear, terror and icy dread in her heart as she beheld Utumno. Though she was not one to scare easily, she felt that she could faint. That was where the first evils of Arda had been created.

The Mountains had been raised. Tulkas and Oromë not finding Melkor, had been called back. They needed to repair the damage.

Varda's stars shone brighter than ever.

Vanimelda gasped and snapped out of the images' power. She was still in the Halls.

But the _mithril_ -coloured light which had surrounded the tapestries had faded.

She blinked. There was another light. In another section of the tapestry.

It was the same tapestry- one long and joining.

The light surrounding it was gold mingling with silver.

And without warning, before she even knew it, she was seeing the history of Arda again.

The stars shone high overhead. It glowed brighter now that the Lamps were no more. Yet Arda was still in darkness, and there was an eternal sleep set about everywhere.

It was in _Endórë_ , she thought. There was a bay. And a sea. Not a lake, as she first thought. But the waters were so clear a blue and reflected the light of the stars. There were mountains. Mountains nearby. The air and breeze were cool and clean and fresh. The waves lapped gently on the white shores.

She gasped. There were people

Several figures lying within the shores.

Elves. This was Cuiviénen.

Birthplace of the elves.

They slept on.

Until one of them blinked and stirred. The others did the same, and they stirred, gradually beginning to awake.

The first elf that woke up was gold-haired and blue-eyed. He- it was a male- looked around, his eyes sharpening, a look of wonder about him, and joy. He set eyes upon a young gold-haired blue-eyed maiden near him. They stopped and stared at one another. Slowly she began to smile, and with a look of awe about him, he smiled as well. It was love. She knew it.

The next elf she saw was different. He was dark-haired and his eyes shone. He stirred. A curiousness, an excited eagerness to set about, explore, do things and make things, discover and learn was about him. He shone and brimmed with excitement. He caught the eye of a dark-haired maiden who looked just as curious and excited and grinned. She blinked a few times then smiled to match his own, in joy and eagerness.

A different love. But no less great.

The third _ellon_ had hair like woven silver. His eyes were like the sea. His eyes were drawn in wonder and eagerness at the sea, and followed the movements of the shores, all the way to the horizon. There was a young maiden, with silver hair like his own. She was closer to the sea and reached out to touch the waters. He caught her hand in his, she nearly jumped and both of them stared in each other's eyes as if they were drowning in their depths.

The three couples, Vanimelda thought. Imin and Iminyë. Spiritual Patriarch and Matriarch of the Minyar elves who would become the Vanyar. Tata and Tatië. Heads of the Tatyar elves of whom some would stay and become Avarin tribes and whom others would become the Noldor. Enel and Enelyë. Leaders of the last ethnic group- the Nelyar, who would split off into various groups- tribes of the Avari, Sindar, Silvan and Nandorin amongst them and the Valinorean Teleri or Lindar as they were known- or the Falmari.

There, the three couples set out. Vanimelda saw Imin point something out. He claimed them as his own- his own clan. They were gold-haired and blue-eyed like him and his mate and it was revealed when they woke them up. They had that same look of wonder and awe about them at the beauty, the desire to devote themselves to something- or someone. To worship who brought them into this world, to unite for a common good. They straightened and look cultured, sophisticated and groomed, even at the primal beginning of their immortal lives. That was something her mother always said about the Vanyar. They were devout people, known for their sophisticated love of high culture and poetry. They hardly engaged in conflict, but if they did they used spears, unlike the shield and swords of the Noldor and the bow and arrows of the Telerin peoples. Belatedly, she remembered that her paternal grandmother was one of them. Her father's mother. The wife of Findekáno or Fingon the Valiant.

 _And my great-great-grandmother Indis,_ sherememberedinshock.

She never thought about it. But there it was. She had a connection to all the three ethnic groups of Valinorean elves- most prominently the Noldor, but also the Vanyar and Falmari/Lindar/Teleri. High King Ingwë was her great-granduncle to the third degree.

She never thought about her Vanyarin roots before.

She wondered if Ingwë was among them. And his sister.

But the scene didn't stop there. They kept walking, Tata then spotted elves with dark or auburn hair like her mother. There were nine pairs of elves, evenly matched, male and female. They were doing all sorts of things. Some were studying the behaviours of insects and small animals, watching them carefully, excitedly pointing things out to their companions. Others were whittling with sharpened stones, and metal fragments- though how they came by that Vanimelda had no idea- in broken logs and stones. Others were watching the stars. Tata excitedly claimed them as his own especially when Imin refused to take them.

They continued their journey, teaching and developing new words, and when Enel heard and saw more elves singing, without words, and with silver-hair like him, he eagerly claimed his group after Imin refused.

Vanimelda watched as they continued their journey, Tata, Tatië and Enel and Enelyë claiming more elves. It was different, she thought, when she witnessed this for herself, rather than hearing about it or reading it off paper.

They settled down in Cuiviénen, but she saw one day, a rider riding a magnificent horse, magnificent himself, spectacular and splendid. It was Oromë.

He spoke to them, and Vanimelda did not hear anything. But she saw that he appeared to be greeting, soothing and…encouraging them?

They hesitated, though a number looked eager. Finally, Oromë stretched out his hand and invited three elves to come forwards.

Vanimelda's eyes widened, for she knew who they were.

Tall, stern, noble and magnificent, yet gentle and kind. Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë.

They were all of them related to her by blood. Finwë she was directly descended from on both sides of the family. Ingwë… he was the uncle of Indis. Elwë… Her heart caught in her throat. He was the father of Lúthien known as Elu Thingol and brother of Olwë, her forefather on her mother's side.

He was inviting them. They sped off to Valinor.

And she saw them witness the wonders she herself only saw through her mother's eyes, and heard from her mother's voice.

No wonder her mother had not wanted to leave.

She saw them- the three elven kings persuade the others. All of the Imin's group- the Minyar decided to go as a whole. These were the Higher Authority they had been waiting to serve- the life of comfort and refinement they wanted to live. But the two largest groups hesitated. It took some persuasion. The most curious, Vanimelda noted, the most eager for a new and better life, the most adventurous, wanted to go. The others were afraid, reluctant due to the love of the place in which they lived in, the surroundings they were used to and did not want to trade- they feared change and they mistrusted authority other than themselves as individuals.

So they whispered amongst themselves, looked fearful and retreated deep into the forests while the others excitedly packed for their journeys and their new lives.

Not all of them would make it.

Vanimelda saw there was another watching.

It was Melkor. His eyes filled with hate and an eager maliciousness to destroy others, especially their hopes and dreams.

Melkor whom she saw luring the elves deep into his fortress of Utumno. There he tortured and mutilated them, their bodies and minds, until their souls fled to Mandos, whereupon they described the loathsome deeds of Melkor to the Valar and the Maiar. The most loathsome deeds in the Eyes of the All-Father.

Many left on the Great Journey. Vanimelda knew it took fifty years to reach Valinor. But before they had left Melkor ensnared many of them. The Valar were forced to act.

Deep inside his fortress surrounded by dark and forbidding mountains, Melkor had a pit. A pit so deep, that it was no wonder humans would later speak of stories in which the most evil and damned of the deceased would be sent to. At first she saw nothing but then…

She gasped.

It was a chasm, alright. And she saw nothing but the black shadows of eternal darkness. But there was something moving down there- no, _writhing_. It was hard to see, even for an elf. Suddenly, unnatural, terrifying light dawned upon her vision and the indescribably vast and bottomless chasm showed itself truly for the first time to her eyes.

There were countless forms lining the walls of the pit, waving their arms, climbing and seeking to clamber on top of one another, but never succeeding to escape, because something kept pulling them down. The muscles of their forms had withered away leaving them skeletal and their skin looked as if it had been burnt and roasted to a crisp charcoal-shade and consistency. Some parts were peeling so that charred and blackened bones remained. Their eyes were feral, hateful and evil, or just desperate and angry. Their wails, howls, shrieks and screams turned utterly bestial in a way no animal would be and raging mad. They sported other deformities too- their teeth were chipped-looking and sharp, like bits of sharpened bone, disease-ridden and stained with blood and ash. Some skins were sallow, like the blood and other juices had been drained from them, drop by drop. Their bones, even that of their skulls, were twisted and deformed, utterly broken. The hair crisped away by unholy fire. Lips that were too thin like they had been cut and curled inwards.

These were elves turning into orcs.

Vanimelda had never felt so faint- so void of courage- not in her entire life, when Ceorl and Gríma were beating her. Not when she faced Sapzôr whose vile features were nothing compared to the horrors Melkor bestowed upon the unfortunate. Not when she was under the spell of the Avari Queen.

There were other tortures- outside the pit. Worse things she could not describe or possibly even imagine. There were things forming in the depths of the pit- a great, growing ball, growling and filled with malicious energy. She knew she was looking at the beginning of the first dragons or trolls.

Vanimelda felt ill. Unlike an elf, but yes, she did. She was not ashamed to admit that.

She wondered if any of the elves she had seen in Cuiviénen were among them.

And so the Valar acted.

The earth groaned and creaked. Bright lights a billion times brighter than forest fires, sprung up in the cold north.

Outside of Utumno while the elves were getting ready for their Great Journey, they heard and saw thunderous lightning, up high in the north, and the earth shook, frightening and terrifying the elves.

The host of Valar and Maiar came down upon Utumno. The Great Sea widened. The Bay of Balar carved outwards and the Sirion River was formed. Dorthonion and Hithlum grew new mountains.

Suddenly Utumno was unroofed. Melkor fled, retreating deep underground in the fortress, while the Valar and the Maiar flew and fought their way in.

At long last the Valar and Melkor stood face to face. Manwë and Melkor were both shocked. Manwë because he expected Melkor to be overwhelmingly powerful, too powerful to overcome. But Melkor in his desperation had transferred a great deal, if not the majority of his strength to his minions. And so they engaged him.

Tulkas wrestled and threw Melkor to the ground. Melkor howled, a howl of fear, desperation, fury and disbelief. Still he kept on.

And there they bound him, with the chain Aulë had forged. Angainor, made of copper-green alloy called Tilkal, stronger than any metal, bound tightly.

But they had not seen all.

They did not delve deep underground. They did not see the other things he devised. They did not know Melkor's servant watching them silently, swearing deathly vengeance. Those eyes which were black as the night yet burned like molten fire.

Melkor was brought, chained before the Máhanaxar. They judged him and threw him in the void.

Vanimelda let out the breath she was holding unknowingly as she saw the scene change.

Elves on horses and on foot with canes, dressed in heavy travelling cloaks with hoods, packs on their backs and saddle-bags. They set off. Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë. But she knew what became of Elwë, she didn't have to see him encountering Melian to know. Olwë her forefather led the Teleri who went onto Aman.

And then the vision changed. Varda and Yavanna knelt before a mound of soil. Their powers reached out and combined and Nienna went forth and watered the mound with her tears.

The Two Trees grew and blossomed. The elves who finally arrived split up, built cities according to their tastes and liking. And a child was born.

Fëanáro.

And Vanimelda witnessed her great-grandfather's birth, his mother's abandonment, the way her mother had described.

But they were fleeting compared to the rest.

Her vision pulled out again. This time to another section of the tapestry filled with copper-coloured light.

She swallowed. Vanimelda saw the unchaining of Melkor, the death of Finwë, the destruction of the Two Trees, the theft of the Silmarils. The Oath Fëanáro- her great-grandfather and his seven sons, including her grandfather, took. The Kinslaying at Alqualondë.

The War of Wrath. But also the rising of Laurelin's last flower and Telperion's last fruit, in the skies, guarded by Arien and Tillion.

The Awakening of humans. Their stirring. Their discovery by the elves- and by a delighted Melkor, now Morgoth.

The other kinslayings. How could gems mean so much? She thought incredulously. The Silmarils lost all beauty in her eyes. No wonder her mother loathed them. And it wasn't just the sons of Fëanáro. Elu Thingol, Lúthien and Beren, the Dwarves who killed Thingol, Earendil and Elwing… How could they put the gems beyond any kind of life?

It disgusted her. The Fëanorions might have faced their Doom. But the others walked free. They disgusted her too.

Then the emergence of Númenor. Her father… And her mother.

Her father rose to greatness. Her mother too, knew high levels of unparalleled success. They met, fell in love, and married, as her mother redeemed her family name and earned a place for her and her remaining kin in Middle-Earth.

Then the rise of Sauron. The appearance of Annatar. The forging of the Rings of Power.

It was all too much. She already knew these things from history but why was she seeing this now? Her vision was supposed to give her clues- hints about the future, her destiny. Morgoth was chained. Sauron was gone.

What in the world was she supposed to learn? She already knew these things from history lessons with Almarië and her mother!

 _What_ _is_ _the_ _future?_ She wondered. What was the point of this vision?

 _What am I supposed to see in all this?_

And suddenly, though she wasn't sure she had walked- she found herself standing before a great granite throne.

* * *

Námo Lord of Mandos sat before her.

He rose and without a word turned around. There was another corridor, she saw. Leading away from the hall. He headed towards the door at the end. Before he reached it, he looked back. His face was hidden in shadow, but Vanimelda sensed that he wanted her to follow.

And so she did. She followed him and there was a light at the end of the dark corridor.

A shining, bright, blinding or overwhelming light. It didn't hurt her eyes, but she could not see what was beyond.

She kept walking… And she allowed the light to consume her.

Everything disappeared in a flash.

* * *

 ** _The Initiation_** _**Rite here was what is based on what Maria Kvilhaug, author of the**_ **Seed** **of** **Yggdrasil** _ **who found information in the Poetic Edda texts and made a video on YouTube. It tells of a young maiden who went into a trance and climbed the branches of the World Tree to send her spirit into the otherworld to face trials, learn lessons needed and discover her destiny. If Tolkien based a lot of things on Norse mythology, might as well, but the writers of the Sagas, Maria Kvilhaug and Tolkien own these things- I only own the characters and certain events I write!**_


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Vanimelda wasn't sure when she found that her vision had come into focus again, but she realised that she was in the centre of a room.

Well, room could never be the right word to describe it. The place was so large, the Great Hall of her father's palace would be dwarfed and that was saying _something_.

The top was so high, she wasn't even sure if there was a ceiling. The floor upon which she stood on… It felt solid and smooth beneath her feet, but something wasn't right.

Vanimelda looked down. She would have jumped if she could. The floor was entirely made of clouds, air, and far below, lands and sea. And not painted, sculpted or carved, but it appeared…. Her eyes widened. _Real_.

Then she looked at and she suddenly understood what Gríma meant when she complained about an impending heart attack.

She tried not to quake. This was not the time for weakness.

The worst was far behind her. Or was it?

She looked up and if she had been in her normal state, she was sure her heart would have stopped.

There were several mighty and indescribable figures, seated upon massive thrones that reached very far high up. They were in giant form. But no, even giants would be shadowed by them.

The walls between the thrones- which were arranged in a ring around the floor on which she stood- were covered with shining, bright light. The beings themselves who sat upon the thrones… She felt an awe striking her, and a powerful feeling sweep her from her head to her toes.

The Valar. She stood before the Máhanaxar.

The Ring of Doom.

Inwardly, she swallowed.

Directly to her right, was a Vala. Although he was the same size, somehow he seemed smaller, slighter in build than the others. His skin was fair, but with a warm, hazy glow about him that seemed cosy and warm. Looking at him made her feel warm, almost drowsy. Or dreamy. There appeared to be other dreamy colours dancing about though her eyes never managed to pinpoint them whenever she tried to focus. His form shimmered and became misty or cloudy, like she was getting sleepy, like a mirage, even. His face was gentle, but it also seemed to shift whilst remaining the same. Soft golden clouds appeared in her eyes with spots of pastel colour- pale purples and greens, pinks and blues. Like dreams.

Irmo, Lord of Dreams Master of Lórien. He smiled _encouragingly_ at her?

At her other side, Námo Lord of Mandos had seated himself. Once again, his face was hidden in shadow. Well, she could see his strong features, and his pale skin, his hair blacker than night, as dark as his halls, and yet they were shadowed. As were his black, black eyes. She couldn't describe it, except it was hidden and yet it was not.

Yet even he seemed less intimidating and frightening, than reassuring. Soothing, even. She blinked.

Her eyes fell upon a Valië next to Irmo. She had the dreamiest blue eyes Vanimelda had ever seen. Her fair skin glowed the same hazy, slightly golden glow as her husband's and her hair shimmered and glowed as the rest of her- like a mirage, a dream or a hallucination. Like her husband there appeared to be numerous shimmering colours all about her, but was hard to pinpoint because they vanished and always seemed to be induced at the corner of one's eyes. In fact, it was hard to separate her hair from the light that surrounded her, making her almost too bright to look at, and eyelids grow heavy. Her softly glowing aura was as golden as light itself. She was like her husband in the fact that she looked more like a dream, and the hazy light, with the numerous shimmering, almost-undetectable colours did cause Vanimelda feel warm and drowsy. This was Estë, Lady of Rest, wife of Irmo.

Next to Námo, was a Valië, no less beautiful than the others, but with a quiet aura that made Vanimelda think of hands folded neatly upon laps at rest, or slender, graceful fingers dancing, cleverly bringing to life a pattern of indescribable beauty. Of calm quietness, of peace and reasoning, of clever skill and clever usefulness of talent. Her skin was also fair, and her gentle smile was sad, knowing, yet kind and understanding and sweet. This was someone who had seen many things- good and ill, sorrowful and joyful, and remembered and recorded all. Her eyes, greyish-violet or silvery-violet, told all. Her pale gold hair came in gentle waves and curls or maybe crimped waves in some areas and in some angles, it was touched with red. Her cheeks were rosy and she smiled at Vanimelda. Her fingers were long, slender and tapered. Vairë the Weaver, wife of Námo whose tapestries she had seen.

At the very front stood two figures. One Vala and one Valië who exuded real authority, even amongst the other Valar. She was not easily cowed but even not in her physical form, her knees felt seriously weak. She marvelled that she had not fainted yet.

Manwë, King of the Valar was arrayed in deep blue, the edge of his robe embroidered with oval sapphires at the border. His hair was golden the exact colour of the sun's rays, his eyes bluer than the skies in which he reigned, which had a piercing eagle gaze. Yet they seemed to soften, much like his queen's.

The stories had been right about Varda. The true measurement and depth of her beauty could not be imagined. Her flowing hair was the shade of midnight sky, with silver lights woven through. Her eyes were amber stars-, no supernovas themselves- and they seemed to shine, piercing yet soft at Vanimelda. She wore a circlet of _mithril_ with what looked like a literal solitary star upon her graceful brow. Her robe was truly the most amazing thing. Whole glowing and shimmering constellations, nebulae of so many gleaming colours, floating amidst the blue-black of her fabric. Stars of countless galaxies, all of it in her fabric- and not embroidered ones. She smiled at Vanimelda and the girl was almost blinded.

Vanimelda tried not to quake, yet despite her brave attempt, she failed.

It was not every day that she found herself standing face to face with the Guardians of Arda whom the All-Father had assigned.

She knelt. "My lord, my ladies," she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

"Rise," Manwë's voice was gentle, yet powerful and mighty, it reminded her of high winds and strong storms across wide open areas, like mountains overlooking valleys. She did so, her knees somehow still managing not to shake.

"Dearest child," Varda's voice was gentle and whispery, like what she imagined stars would sound like twinkling and washing over her, like warm, gentle waves. "Long have we awaited this moment. But longer still, must we wait."

Suddenly, Vanimelda found her voice again. "Wait for what?"

Varda smiled sadly. "The Father has planned a great destiny for you, child."

She stared at them. It was probably rude but… "A destiny?" She asked incredulously. "But what purpose do _I_ serve in the history of Arda?"

"Not a small one," Vairë said, her voice soft. "But you will not be alone."

She stared helplessly at all the Valar.

Fearfully, she looked at them. There was one who was truly terrifying to behold but radiated cheerfulness and gentle humour. His skin was blue-green, and there might have been minuscule, barely-seen scales upon the surface of his muscled form. Ray fins protruded from his flesh, at his elbows, and shoulders, Bivalve shells covered his ears and at the top of his head was a crest like a ribbed murex shell. His beard was long and wild, the colour of sea-foam and reminded her of a riptide. His eyes were a silver-blue and they shone fiercely, but warmly, as if a parent looking with pride upon their child. Ulmo, Lord of Waters.

Opposite Ulmo, on the other side, was a Valië with clear grey eyes and long, silky taupe-coloured tresses, who wore a plain grey gown without any form of adornment. Her skin was pale, and she had gentle, sweet smile, but sad. But what truly astounded her was that this Valië was crying at an enormous rate- waterfalls of tears- a clear, pale grey- ran down in streams down her face before seemingly disappearing to nowhere she was able to see. Nienna the Weeper, Lady of Mercy.

Oromë was easily detected. Proud and stern, the Vala was lean and fit, healthy and strong, and the Master Woodsman had golden-brown hair and eyes like the forests he was so fond of. His hair was perfectly windswept, as if he had just been riding, and leaves and vines adorned his riding vest and tooled leather boots. His arms were lean and muscled.

Nearby Tulkas the Champion of the Valar was even bigger than Orome, and more muscular. He grinned enormously and encouragingly, as if this whole event cheered him and his teeth were brilliantly white.

Meanwhile, Aulë the Smith, in his powerfully built form, no less strong and mighty, no less intimidating, but it was as if he was not someone to destroy, but rather build something great. She could already see him pounding, hammering away amidst the flames of his forge. Building great monumental things that could forge the world's history as everyone knew it. His skin was tan, his hair a reddish brown touched with gold flecks.

Beside him, the Lady Yavanna. She was gowned in green, like velvet, moss or grass, and her hair was a rich brown, like the richest earthen colours, mingled with the gold of wheat and corn, weaving together, flowing down her back. Branches, vines, leaves, wheat and other ears of grain and flowers wove together to create a circlet, weaving into Yavanna's hair, the flowers and vine-stems seemingly growing out of the circlet and spilling themselves over the crown of her head, down the strands and over her gown. It covered nearly her whole hair. The gown itself was embroidered by what looked like gold and silver stars, but on closer inspection was _niphredil_ and _elanor_ flowers. Her girdle was made of golden flowers, her the front of her skirt looked like a giant leaf. Her eyes were a foggy leaf-green yet clear lighter green, as if there were two colours mixing and mingling with one another, the irises clear as glass and larger than normal.

Yavanna's younger sister was lovelier than anyone's imagination. Her hair was as the richest golden, not merely blonde, shining and cascading, softer than down and her dress was pale pink lace and white silk so smooth and with numerous folds, it looked like liquid. Flowers bloomed from them, and her face was eternally youthful, in a way not even an immortal elf's could be- fresh, sweet, young, exuberant and eternal. Her blue eyes sparkled and shone. And so many rich flowers- of the creamiest pastel colours, or the richest, deepest shades, were in the largest, loveliest garland Vanimelda had ever seen, that mingled with the gold of her hair.

And Nessa's hair was rich brown, waving. Her smile was bright and her dress a creamy-green but short. Her brown eyes sparkled, and even in stillness, she was fluid. Her light form was obviously that of a dancer's slender, curving in some movements, lithe and graceful. Her eyes were a lovely amber colour.

So much power in one place? What did these enormously powerful beings want with _Vanimelda_? She was just… _her_.

Alright, so maybe she was more than that? But that wasn't _her_. She was did not unify the elves of Middle-Earth. She did not create the Silmarils, the Rings of Power, the _Palantiri_ , or any script of Middle-Earth. She did not conduct missions or lead armies into battle for centuries the way both her parents did. And as far as Middle-Earth was concerned, she had disappeared entirely- she might even be dead to them for all she knew.

Sensing her thoughts, Manwë smiled sadly. "My dear child, you are more important than you think, precisely because you are not your ancestors- even your greatest ones. Although they have given you gifts that cannot be denied, the greatest gift your mother gave you apart from life, is the ability to live uncrushed beneath anyone's shadow. Even her own. Not even she had that gift- she gave everything up, sacrificing for all."

Vanimelda winced, remembering the suffering and painful life her mother had lead. And the awful, horrible end.

The Valar all looked upon her with pity. "Yes," Manwë said softly. "It is hard, is it not? It is hard enough to sacrifice one's life, but harder still to sacrifice loved ones- even for their own good and the good of all. We asked your mother to make one last sacrifice- for her offspring. But now, instead of her, we ask it of _you_. Will you accept this destiny that the All-Father, Eru Ilúvatar has written for you?"

Her throat dry, Vanimelda replied, "What is my destiny?"

Then the _floor_ changed.

Suddenly it was smooth, solid black marble gleaming in the suddenly-dimmed light. Several lines like rays parted the circular floor into sections which lead to a single globe in the middle. But it was not a globe like the one Lord Elrond had showed to her father in his study at Imladris. This appeared real. With swirling clouds, softly floating, and breezes icy to the touch- currents of air that emanated from the globe. Mist covered the forms of the Valar upon their thrones and now Vanimelda could no longer see them.

Unsure of what to do, she stepped forwards.

Her vision swam before her eyes yet again.

* * *

Once again she found herself in a place that she just knew was part of Mandos' Halls.

But this was a smaller room- though 'small' wouldn't be the right word for it. There was a something in the other end that attracted a great deal of light. To her shock, it was a loom. A massive one, bigger than any she had ever seen. A tapestry was there. Pulled by the helpless eagerness and excitement to inspect the weavings and artistry of patterned threads and colours and what dyes used here, Vanimelda moved forwards, eyes shining.

She noticed that swathes of fabric hung everywhere. So this was where the tapestries in Mandos' walls came from. No, it was one long tapestry, the weaving of time and history of the world, and as sections were finished, they were pulled out of the loom and hanging places and moved forwards. She heard all the stories her mother told her- the lessons from when she was small. Mandos' Halls forever grew, though it appeared the same on the outside.

The swathes were hung all over the ceiling in large drapes, resembling yet rivalling the banners of a great King's hall. And as she moved closer, she studied them carefully.

These were not the scenes of which she was familiar with from her mother's lessons. Or her father's. Or Vorondo's. Or Almarië's.

She gasped.

It was her.

One picture showed her mother holding a baby with hair so black it could only be her. Violet eyes, brighter than twin gems, peeked up through the blanket. Her mother lay in a bed. Her face was flushed only slightly and her eyes were radiant. She looked more beautiful than ever. Her father held them both close.

Vanimelda took a shaky deep breath.

Her eyes moved to the next picture. There she was learning how to speak, taking her first steps, learning how to read and write in different languages, the history of her people and family, of the races of Middle-Earth in general. She learned how to spin and weave, she was given a doll, and taught how to pray when she was young, by her mother. The tapestry also showed her mother hanging ornaments, new necklaces, bracelets and bangles, chokers and brooches, armlets, circlets, diadems and tiaras on her dressing table that she would one day inherit.

It never happened.

She saw the Last Alliance. It struck her just how sheltered she was kept by her parents, from all of this.

Then her parents' death. She could not bear to see it.

And her disappearance.

So her mother did order Vorondo to sneak her out of her nursery, she marvelled. But why?

Was she not safe in Lindon? Lindon had one of the Three Rings of Power- Narya- the Ring of Fire. And even if not, she would have been safe in the Grey Havens when Círdan, her father's trusted advisor, friend and mentor, lived. No one could attack there. Or to Lothlórien, maybe. She would be safest there, and in Imladris. Two other Rings of Power- Nenya ring of Water and Vilya, Ring o Air, respectively, were present.

But what if her mother couldn't risk word of her getting out? Even amongst their own people?

Vanimelda was expressionless when she saw the next scenes. There was no more King of the Noldor. After her father's death, with no apparent, present heir- she was also too young as well as disappeared- the Kingdom of the Noldor upon Middle-Earth was diminished. Lindon had already lost a fair amount of its lands during the waves that followed the Sinking of Númenor and the changing of the world. And with no leader…

The Noldor had left. Slowly left. They were a diminished people in Middle-Earth and now it was time for them to go home.

Strong, powerful and unbearable shame and overbearing guilt crashed onto her. It never occurred to her that she could have prevented all this. If she had been present, even with someone to be a regent to her (they weren't an absolute monarchy anyway), or if she had been older…. The Noldor could have remained. Her people could have stayed, they could have had a future in Middle-Earth.

She swallowed back her tears of guilt, shame and grief. She had let everyone down, and she didn't even realise it until now.

Pushing back her tears, she took a shaky breath and kept studying the tapestry.

It was all too familiar to her. The time with Vorondo. The treachery that ended in his death. The abuse and enslavement she suffered at the hands of that treacherous peasant couple. Her mother's _fëa_ communing with her, giving her a doll who could speak to her, named Almarië, helping her to escape. Her time with Sapzôr. Her training.

Vanimelda went cold, however, when she saw the next stage.

She saw herself high in the branches of the ash tree, seemingly asleep, with her head resting on soft moss. Her hands shook.

Vanimelda took a deep breath, and willed herself to go on.

These were the images of her future.

Her forewritten destiny.

Much of it was blank. She understood that. Plain and empty white like paper, and it was because of the decisions she had yet to come to, the choices she had yet to make. The smaller details in her journey that would make the pattern of the tapestry complete.

After all, the future isn't set in stone.

But there were images, alright. She wasn't one of the race of Men. She didn't have their gift- their luxury of choice of destiny, tempered only by short life and an eternal sleep.

So she looked on.

There were people. Chained and enslaved, many of them whipped into submission. There were countless women. In fact there were people of all races- humans, elves and dwarves. The dwarves were forced to labour, mining, but not as contentedly as they must have done in their homes and freedom. The humans were forced to do back-breaking farm labour. Tending vegetables, watering gardens, harvesting grain. There were females of every race, forced to dress the hair of wealthier-looking women, painting their faces (only humans did that) mending and weaving their clothes, polishing shoes and sandals. And being horrifically abused by men in unspeakable ways.

She saw elves too. They built and crafted items for them- the slave owners, she thought. The dwarves made weapons of war, jewellery and metal items of practical use, but some elves did so as well. Wood elves did not work metals and gems the way the Noldor did. But there were some Noldor too, building piping water systems, weaving and spinning cloths, crafting metalwork and gems. Vanimelda's eyes widened.

They were slaves. There was no doubt about that. She saw them whipped and flogged. Violated and covered in filth. A large number were starved, barely nourished.

And they were kept separate. Normally they would have risen in revolt, but- Vanimelda's mind went on overdrive- they were kept in various different places, subdued very heavily, weakened and broken down. They had no idea where they were, where they would go if they escaped, and what would be waiting for them. By the looks of the nasty-looking whips with spiked barbs and thorns on the end, and the other weapons, Vanimelda had no doubt that they were seriously discouraged.

It appeared they lived somewhere in the northern areas of Middle-Earth. Judging from their captors' clothing…

There was a hint of Easterling in their clothing and designs, but nothing that suggested they had Easterling blood in their features. Their culture or their designs might have been influenced by Easterlings, perhaps the Nomadic tribes, or the great civilisations that few in the west had ever seen, but not so much. Her eyes widened.

Dark Númenórean. Descendants of the King's Men.

It could only be.

 _No, they were in decline. How could they possibly still be here?_

But they were.

Well, actually they did look like they had a touch of Easterling blood. Vanimelda searched the tapestry for more details. These people were a radical religious, cultural and ethnic minority group who were pushed westwards, and considered outcasts and barbarians by the more sophisticated and advanced civilisations of the east. They had lived on the outskirts of the great eastern civilisations and at first, there rested a fragile peace between them. But they were undisputedly different, and differences, especially amongst humans, were always a source of conflict. They practiced shamanism, and many shamans were prominent in their culture and religion. But they were too ambitious. They delved too darkly and too greedily. And they lived in the harshest terrain in the central-north of Middle-Earth. There were lands unlike the ones their neighbours lived in their great cities, which was lush and fertile used for feeding countless millions. East of the Rhovanion, these areas were called the Eastlands or the Rhûn in general, but in fact, there were many territories and even more diverse ethnic and cultural groups. The lands these people had originally came from were similar to Khand, where they were fallow and fit for only grass from which cattle and horses could graze. The winters were terribly harsh. These people had been feared and ostracised by their neighbours because of their shamanic practices which bordered close in witchcraft, according to their enemies. But it didn't- at least until someone came along.

At this, Vanimelda frowned deeply. Someone did come, alright. Someone dark and powerful like Morgoth or…

Sauron.

Her heart chilled. He had corrupted them.

Sauron had taken advantage of their weakness. He had started by attempting to conquer east of Middle-Earth. But the lush lands of the great civilisations were untrusting of him. So he turned to the poorer, more destitute and desperate nomads, eager to win glory, riches and gain knowledge of the supernatural. He taught them dark magic. He introduced Dark Númenórean followers of his who interbred and influenced their culture again, hence their physical and cultural characteristics. And their actual dark magic. He convinced them to invade- well, at first, raid, and cause chaos amongst their southern neighbours. The great cities and countries suffered greatly and barely held back the invading raiders. Vanimelda sensed her mother's fingerprints in their defences. She was right.

So they were heavily defeated and forced to move westwards. At this point in time, the suffering, destitute peoples, no wandering, with no settled place to go- not that they had a tradition of permanent settlements- they were nomadic horsemen- lived under the time of the War of Wrath. Sauron was under Morgoth's control by this time. They proved useful when making the Dúnedain suffer- like Húrin's family, including Túrin Turambar. These were the people that invaded their lands.

Vanimelda swallowed. These people were warriors. There was no doubt about that. They were expert horsemen. Her mother had taught her stories about Easterling nomads who were trained to ride before they could even walk. They lived on the saddle, they fought, negotiated in politics and business on the saddle. They ate their own horses, even, as well as cattle, for lack of other food, in the harsh landscapes and winters of their home. They could shoot arrows on horseback, as well as fight with traditional swords and spears. This gave them a cutting edge and they were even better than the Éothéod themselves at riding and warfare on horseback. Furthermore, although it was different for their former neighbours, many peoples, especially humans in smaller settlements, survived on grain-based diets, with little or no meat to strengthen muscle and bone. While the eating of vegetables and fruit were highly encouraged, these peoples did not always clean and cook their crops carefully, so things like weevils and other small insects, fungi or tiny stones often got caught in their daily diet, and made them ill, as well as wearing down teeth and stunting their children's growth. Furthermore, famine was another reason why they could be vulnerable.

So these nomads had grown strong indeed. Though they were pushed back, eventually by Gondor and sometimes by Arnor.

And they had intermingled further with Dark Numenoreans and been further influenced by them. They now lived in the north-west, of Middle-Earth, of that she was sure.

She had to find them. Set the slaves free.

Vanimelda saw herself freeing slaves and training them to fight, leading them and… Cities. Like that in the early stages of her trance.

And like a miracle, she saw great cities to rival those of Gondolin and Doriath, rising in front of her, covered in light.

She knew what to do.

* * *

 _ **Éothéod, as I've mentioned, like Ceorl and** **Gríma**_ _**were ancestors of the Rohirrim before they officially settled in Rohan.**_

 _ **Dark Númenóreans (called**_ **Black** _ **Númenóreans by Tolkien's writings, but that term could be considered offensive by**_ **modern** _ **audiences and readers), are descendants of the King's Men of Númenor who were corrupted by Sauron, and turned against the Valar and the All-Father. These had invaded and established colonies in Middle-Earth so some settlers had descendants and survived the sinking of Númenor.**_

 ** _Easterlings are not greatly featured in Tolkien's stories- save for being corrupted by Sauron. Now, I definitely do not believe Tolkien was racist- definitely not! But there has to be their side of the story, their history and culture were unknown. Gondor kept invading their lands and the lands of the Haradrim, so it can't have been easy for these peoples. So maybe they grew resentful and bitter, destitute and desperate. After all, Khand in the East was fit for only fallow grasslands for horses and cattle to graze. Harad was mostly barren desert that could barely sustain scrub, let alone people. Things were tough. But there were those that persisted, those that became great civilisations like China, Korea and Japan, and those who became fierce nomadic warriors, and the best at horse riding, like the Mongols and the Huns of the Central Asian steppes. The stories and films only ever portrayed them as men corrupted and deceived by Sauron, invaded by the Men of the west, or invading their lands and peoples, or else, at the very end, being sent peace agreements and treaties by King Elessar and King_** _ **Éomer**_ _ **and I want to include their side of the story as well.**_

 _ **To**_ **SarahWeasley : _Thank you! And remember folks, I own nothing, actually! Only my OCs, and certain events and extra details I went in depth with, and even that was based on my research in canon. Nothing else!_**


	13. Chapter 13

**Right folks. I am REEEAALLY sorry about this WAAAYYY overdue chapter update, but I had a writer's block on this thing!**

 **It was horrible. But this is the initiation- and Vanimelda takes another name- and a new path forwards.**

 **SarahWeasley- I'm so sorry! I had a writer's block with this thing!**

 **7doom: I hope you're still interested! Thank you so much!**

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Destiny and Empowerment

Vanimelda found herself staring at the Valar once again.

"So this is to be my destiny then?" She asked.

"Yes," Varda answered. "Until the time comes for you to go home again."

"Home?" Vanimelda asked completely bewildered. The word sounded utterly unknown and foreign to her mouth and mind.

"I have no home," she said incredulously. As soon as she said it, did the words ring true, shaking her to her very core. Lindon the home she had been born in, could no longer be counted as her home. She felt that was not worthy of it. She had abandoned it, though not of her own choice, and the Noldor had mostly left because her father had left no apparent heir and they, being so diminished after the War of the Last Alliance, had mostly died or left for Valinor.

Vorondo had travelled from place to place with her, carrying her in a harp. The rude, awful hellhole of a shack owned by those two, monstrous, cruel-hearted peasants would never be a home to her, any more than Sapzôr's cottage. A house, a cottage, a palace, or a manor, it didn't matter. Home was where ones' loved ones were. And her loved ones had mostly gone.

Varda raised an eyebrow, seemingly in surprise. "Your home is where you make it, Vanimelda. And here, you shall always have a home here, as do all the Eldar."

Valinor. She had only ever heard her parents' tales of it. She never thought of it as a home. Especially when she heard that her mother could not come back.

But she did come back. She was in the Halls of Mandos, was she not? Did she suffer the Eternal Doom? If so how did she manage to commune with Vanimelda? Was she a ghost? No, wraiths and phantoms were not like that. They did not have the warmth, trustworthiness, purity and guidance that she did.

"I can't come to Valinor," she said slowly. "I am of the blood of Fëanáro. He who suffered the Doom of Mandos, as did his sons, including my own grandfather."

The Valar looked at each other and sighed.

"Truly?" It was Námo who spoke. He actually groaned. "Was that what the chroniclers said? Was that what your mother told you from what she remembered as a young child?"

Vanimelda didn't dare say more.

"Child," he said. "It was what I was sent to say. A test. Did you honestly think I would punish innocent along with the guilty? That I would overlook good deeds in favour of ill ones? Did you truly think that we would punish a small child, by taking away the ones she loved, and then condemning her as well? And her child after that?"

"Vanimelda," Varda said, sternly yet gently. "You will always have a home. And you will never be alone. Your mother finally understood that to forgive oneself is harder than it is to forgive others. Can you not do the same? Can you trust in us that we will not punish the innocent along with the guilty?"

Vanimelda sighed. "I will try. But I admit, I am someone still searching for a reason- to live, to believe, to trust- I no longer have my parents with me- save my mother and she isn't there in person. Vorondo, my foster-father, is dead. My two foster-parents were the worst kind to raise a child. I have no one save for Almarië- a _doll_. My mother only appears in apparitions. I am, in fact, alone."

"No child," Queen Varda shook her head. "You are not alone. You will never be alone."

And with that Varda reached out her hand and touched Vanimelda's forehead.

All Vanimelda saw was a burst of golden light. Then she saw cities rising. Glittering cities of such magnificent beauty no one- elf, human or dwarf- could possibly imagine it.

She saw all kinds of people- including the ones from when she gazed upon the tapestry that included her life.

There were many unfinished gaps. But some parts were clear.

She knew what she had to do.

"Your name Elenñaltë Vanimelda Ereinioniel must be kept a secret," Varda decreed. Therefore take up the name that we have given you, when you come into your destiny. The name Tinweriel."

 _Tinweriel_. The name meant maiden crowned with a garland of stars. A sign that Varda had blessed her for her to have given her that name.

She very well couldn't parade her true names out to the world. So why not call her what the Valar chose for her?

Her destiny. It seemed so hard, yet so easy. So unreal, yet the only clear way forward for her.

"Now you must go, child." Varda and all the other Valar stood.

"Go, child. And remember, you are not alone. You will never be alone. Go with the blessing of the One." Manwë intoned.

And at that, a sudden rush of light burst forth from the spaces behind each of the thrones of the Valar, and from behind her, in a door that had suddenly appeared between two of the thrones. She felt herself being pulled backwards, through great, blinding light, the last thing she saw before she was gone, was the figure of Manwë raising his hand in farewell.

* * *

Vanimelda gasped, feeling the sudden rush of air in her lungs, and suddenly realising that she had not breathed during all this time. She had- as soon as she awoke- pulled her head from the tree, jolting away in shock.

 _Now I know my destiny. The way forwards is clear. And it pulls me._

She climbed down from the tree, still in awe, still in some form of trance.

The apparition of her mother smiled. "And so it is clear." Estela murmured.

The Shieldmaiden's initiation was almost complete. Now came the vows.

Her mother handed Vanimelda the sword she would use, and she knelt, reciting the words, the vows that her mother and so many others had made.

"Remember this day, and remember your words, for they shall be your life, your breath, your sustenance and water." Estela said the ritual words. "Others may fall and others may betray their oaths, their friends, their children even, but never you. No shieldmaiden has ever broken her vows, and no shieldmaiden ever will, so long as you uphold them too. Never forget, for we lived and gave our blood for you in death."

" _Násië_ ," Vanimelda murmured. "I never shall, not even when my _fëa_ is being parted from my _hröa_ right before my eyes. For on this day, you have given me breath and the purpose in life, _Amil_."

"Just as I did once before." Estela murmured. She placed her transparent, glowing hands on Vanimelda's shoulders. As if a blessing being passed down from mother to daughter. "Rise, a shieldmaiden. Welcome, daughter and sister."

Vanimelda rose and sheathed her sword. Her eyes shone and she smiled with all the gladness she had as she looked at her mother. But while her mother smiled, her eyes bore pain and sadness beyond imagining. She knew it wasn't the life her mother wanted for her- but it was the fate of the Eldar. Her fate was already determined. It was the only road forwards if she wanted to survive.

"Take Almarië." Her mother warned. "Go to the east. There are kingdoms being subjected under the cruelty of slave-masters and tyrants. People, of all kinds and races, are in peril. This is your task. This is your duty. Now it begins." She touched Vanimelda's pendant. "Go now."

* * *

Vanimelda practiced harder and faster than ever just before she left.

She needed to leave quickly. She had a long journey ahead of her.

It would take years. She knew that now. But her fate would not be that of Lúthien's, Idril or Finduilas. No, her fate was her own.

And as she rode on, she sensed the drums pounding in preparation for war.

* * *

People were being whipped.

They were mostly humans. This was as far eastwards as she dared to go at first. And she was still not anywhere near the Rhûn.

One woman… Was being beaten by a man.

She was human. Her features were that of the west of Middle-Earth, possibly a Northwoman, but her features also suggested Easterling blood. Half and half, possibly. Or a quarter.

Vanimelda's eyes glinted as the woman shrieked, while the man bore a riding crop hard upon her. It took all her instinct not to surge forwards. But she would be outnumbered, no matter how skilled. And the woman, she had a bad feeling, would be in even more trouble afterwards. And then what? Who would help them then?

She would be outnumbered, anyway, Vanimelda thought. But if she could…

And then she knew.

She waited until the man marched away. He staggered, and was drunk, she noticed him lifting a green glass bottle to his lips and then taking a huge swig before staggering away.

Meanwhile the woman lay unconscious it seemed, in the mud, the rain fell, soaking her, droplets making muddy puddles of water. Her wounds, which were considerable, would become seriously infected if she didn't act now. Luckily, all of the witnesses, which had been laughing amongst themselves, and drinking, walked away.

The village was small, alright. But it had a number of people- and not a small number either, Vanimelda noted.

It would take time, but they could afford it.

Vanimelda saw the last of them leave, and then she crept forwards. She lifted the woman up and carried her away to a shelter she had just built where no one could find it without her permission.

The woman was unconscious alright. Vanimelda bathed her, cleaning the wounds and smearing them with medicines and pastes before bandaging them in soft cloth before putting one of nightgowns on her. She had noted the large number of scars and welts- once, even burn marks that looked suspiciously like someone had branded her with hot iron. She swallowed back her rage. She prepared pain-killing drinks and Miruvor for the girl to drink.

Soon enough, with the fire's light and warmth, the woman awoke. Vanimelda was waiting for her. She gasped in awe, more than shock.

"Do not be afraid," Vanimelda whispered to her softly in Westron. "What is your name?"

The woman swallowed. She had a round face with browned skin and dark brown hair and eyes. "Adel," she said. "My name is Adel."

Vanimelda smiled. "Adel," she said softly. "I am Tinweriel."

* * *

Adel spoke to her for a time. She was the daughter of a man, who gave her in marriage at the earliest opportunity to the man she had seen.

Women at this region did not have any say in any matter whatsoever. Even if it concerned their lives. They could not vote on new laws and rulers. They could not own property or businesses. If a man so much as lays a hand on them, it was perfectly fine, as long as he was a father, a husband, a brother or any kind of blood-relative. Unless they were masters and the women were slaves- in that case that was perfectly fine to hurt them no matter if they didn't share blood. And yes, slavery was certainly practiced here. Even though the Free Peoples of Middle Earth prohibited slavery, it ran rampant- as long as no one important from anywhere well-known, such as Gondor, caught them, then it was perfectly fine. But slave or not, women weren't allowed in the streets- unless they wanted to be attacked and taken by force with crowds jeering at them.

Adel could not choose who she married. Her father had arranged a marriage with her to a much older man. To an elf in which love is the basis for a _legal_ marriage, it was incomprehensible to Vanimelda. But humans here, she learnt, did things differently.

They were Northmen who had migrated east in search of richer lands, long ago. These were their descendants. Adel's father had arranged a marriage with a man, twice her age. He was not very bright. He was lazy and arrogant, and he had a lot of weight. He was, as Vanimelda herself had witnessed, abusive and sadistic. But he had a fair amount of wealth. He had social status in that small town, densely populated as it was, and he was respected- though not for the right reasons. He was her father's ally in business and the small, petty politics- if there were any, and not a bureaucracy completely run with corruption- and while her father had made all the decisions in her life beforehand, her husband now ran her existence like a slave-master.

Adel drank what Vanimelda gave her.

"You are an elf," she noted seeing her ears. "Why did you come so far east?"

Vanimelda took a deep breath. "I was looking for you."

Adel was startled and almost dropped the cup. "F-for me?" She stuttered. "But I don't-"

"Not for you specifically," Vanimelda sighed. "Some elves have… A gift and a curse, as you can call it. I can see things that lie ahead…. And behind. The past, the present and the future."

Adel's eyes were wide.

"I saw many people," Vanimelda confirmed. "And then I was initiated. I became a shieldmaiden."

Adel looked confused. "A what?"

"A shieldmaiden. A woman-warrior."

Adel's eyes were so massive they were the size of dinner platters. "Impossible," she whispered. "No woman could be-"

"Oh," Vanimelda scoffed. "Is that what the man who beat you told you? How about the men who jeered and laughed at you while you were suffering, and they were ridiculously drunk. Wine-sodden, as a matter of fact. And you believe them? Do you actually believe what they say?"

Adel flushed. She looked down.

Vanimelda looked disgusted. "I never understand why humans adhere to gender roles. I mean, most females prefer sewing to men, but to stamp upon such laws that allow for abuse- it is nothing short of tyranny. Laws are meant to _protect_ people, not allow for harm. At least not the laws I lived under."

"And what do you live under?" Adel asked. She sipped the brew.

"The shieldmaiden's code of honour," Vanimelda explained. "But as I was saying, we elves allow women to fight like the men if they so choose- most don't but some, including my mother in her time, and I, do. We have no choice if we want to survive. And while you can say that the men will protect you, men have always died in battle- valiantly and with nobility and great courage- but they still died. And who defends the women then?" She looked at Adel straight in the eye. "No one, that is for sure. No one will defend you, if you do not defend yourself."

Adel flushed and looked down again. "But even if I could, I am a human. We are not allowed…" But she trailed off when she saw Vanimelda's face.

"Listen to me," she said dangerously. "There are shieldmaidens outside of this place. A number of them are Northwomen, like your ancestors. The Éothéod- the horse-lords- are Northmen in descent- and they have had great shieldmaidens! Why should you be any different?"

"Because it's not allowed!" She nearly cried. "My father, or my husband, any man in this town would kill me or sell me into slavery if they found out." Vanimelda was shaking her head. "And no one would say anything?" She shook her head again. "This place is corrupt, Adel. And you can choose- to serve a law that protects the innocent and the helpless, or to harm them. Do you have any children?"

She shook her head. "Will you?"

She flushed. "I'd like to, but I can't imagine _him_ as the father." She replied, shuddering.

"Then imagine if you had a daughter. Would you love her?" Vanimelda demanded, eyes blazing.

"Of course."

"Would you die for her as my mother, and any good mother would, to protect her?"

"Well- I don't have any children." She flushed again. "And my mother died when I was very young."

"So did mine," Vanimelda said heavily. "But she gave me strength. And when and if I should ever marry and have children, I shall bring down Angband to protect them if I had to. Since I cannot, I can protect _you_. But not if you don't let me."

Adel looked at her wide-eyed. "I can protect you, but choose: what law do you wish to serve- the one that oppresses you, or the one that will protect you and all your children in the future?"

"The one that protects," Adel admitted. "But… If they find out? If they know?"

"Then I will protect you," Vanimelda swore. "I have fought orcs and monsters before." She murmured. In a trance, but still. "I can teach you- show you how. And if they come for you, I can save you- better yet I can help you save yourself. And others who need my help when the time comes."

Adel looked at her.

She showed her a carved image- of a woman, holding a babe at her breast, while battling orcs and trolls with a sword with another hand.

"Protect, or die and let them die," Vanimelda said sternly, eyes never leaving Adel's.

"A shieldmaiden once confronted an ordinary woman whose babes had been slain by enemy soldiers," Vanimelda said softly but clearly. "When the woman wept the shieldmaiden told her it was her fault her babes died, because she lifted not a finger to save them. She slapped her in the face. 'Only do and speak of what only you can do and say,' she told her. 'For that is done by your type of maids. And while men and women wait on you hand and foot, of course you are satisfied and of course you learn to do nothing yourself. And of course you lifted not a finger when your babes were swung by their feet and their skulls smashed upon the cold stone wall.'" Vanimelda finished.

"She later confronted the enemy herself- and defeated them. Although shieldmaidens fall as male warriors do, not all of them do, and a number have retired, married, bore children and grandchildren. One even had a granddaughter who became a shieldmaiden after her. These were not women so different from you, Adel. They did not start off with everything in life. When my parents died, I had nothing. And yet…" She smiled. "You want a chance in life? A chance to protect and save yourself and the ones you love? I can give it to you. I can save you- and I can teach you to survive- like I have- without the need for that man. If you have no other bread, than swallow his evils. But you have me. You have me to give you your chance, and I am giving you that chance. If you want to take it."

Vanimelda held out her hand. "Remember," she said. "I once had nothing. I once had been beaten and enslaved. Now I do not need servitude to keep me fed. If you can make a place for yourself in the world, then you can marry someday, make fine children, be happy- and above all- have a future that you want and deserve- not as a slave and a bed-warmer with the title of _wife_. No woman deserves to be treated as such."

Adel looked stared. And then she took Vanimelda's hand. "What must I do?" She asked.

Vanimelda smiled.

"Go back to your husband and give him all the food and wine he would need to make him fatter and lazier." She said. "Pretend that there is nothing amiss. Then when he is greedily consuming all you have laid out on the table, give him this." She handed Adel a packet. "It's harmless. A strong sleeping draught. Mix it in his hot drink. Then when he is snoring in bed, and cannot harm you, make sure no one is watching, then come here. Tell no one about me. Not for now."

Adel took the packet of herbs and nodded.

* * *

He was sodden alright. He had gobbled and stuffed himself with the hot food she had laid out, draining the wine dry. Then he yelled at her to clean up, and clean the mess at the floor, while he went to bed. She did so, and soon he was snoring.

Then, putting on a hooded cloak, she slipped quietly out when no one was watching.

Her heart pounding in her rib-cage, Adel made it.

She was standing there. Dressed in a surcoat and a beautifully moulded leather breastplate. Her hair was tied back. Greaves were on her shins, and her arms were covered.

She smiled. "You made it." She shone. "I knew you would."

"Now, are you ready for this?" she asked seriously, warily. "I would not force you to do what you don't want to do, even if it means saving your life. Onlyyou can choose to have your chance for a good life and freedom."

Adel eagerly nodded.

"Do you wish to fight for your future sons and daughters? For your freedom? Do you wish to be free of that man, and for him never to father your children or be near you?"

Again, she nodded.

Vanimelda smiled. She tossed her a wooden sword. "Practice." She began. "This is shaped like a sword, although it is clearly wood. Now I want to see you hold it, first."

Vanimelda came over. She frowned. She touched her hand gently and guided the fingers into position. "Tighter," she instructed. "But not too tight. Move your grip… Here." She guided it again, gently. "There. Start with the sword first. Then I'll teach you how to stalk a deer in silence and to bring it down with an arrow over a hundred yards away." Adel's eyes widened and she brightened. Vanimelda laughed softly. "You will never depend on him for food again."

Slowly, she learned how to use a sword. First, she was shown how to raise the sword as if to strike. The best way to parry. Then she sparred in slow-motion, with her teacher, they kept it up, gaining in momentum, only gradually. She was shown how to block and strike in ways and angles she could have never imagined- and ways that she was certain, the town's guards never could- Vanimelda had told so herself with a wink. Adel had brightened considerably and soon they were sparring more and more quickly. "Don't be afraid," she had been told when she had first started to spar more quickly. "Let go."

And it went on for a few weeks. As soon as the moon was high in the sky, and her husband was snoring, and no one was around, Adel would sneak to Vanimelda.

"I'll be giving you real challenges," she warned Adel. "Don't expect to win- as an immortal-" she had told Adel elves were- "And as I have been fighting for longer than you have, I have had more experience. But promise me one thing- don't judge for yourself how good or how bad you are. For this time, and this time only, leave the judging to me. Don't think about it. I won't be. Just concentrate on the fight and have fun."

She did. And they kept, hacking, and striking, aiming blows, twisting and turning, swinging the wooden swords without losing their grip, spinning themselves and the 'blades', jumping, parrying and blocking aiming in the least expected places. It was the most thrilling experience the human girl had ever had. Even though she lost, when her teacher disarmed her, and tossed the blade aside, the brilliant smile that outshone the moon on her teacher's face told her one thing. "You have passed." She said. "You might not have beaten me, but I am certain, the guards of this town would fall like wheat before you."

They moved onto the spear. Vanimelda personally didn't like the spear as much as the sword and bow. She wasn't like her father in this sense, who fought mostly with Aeglos. But she was excellent and she had already seen her father fight, before she even learned how to. And now she carved long spears from fallen branches melded together, and with a keen edge.

It would be a while before she allowed Adel to use real weapons. But soon.

After making satisfactory progress they moved on.

She began to teach her how to use a bow. Until she could shoot something at such a great distance, not even the Númenóreans had as much skill as this ordinary human woman with the bow.

It was a while. After various different angles, practicing how to shoot in positions where no enemy or predator would be able to spot her, it was a while before Adel was deemed ready to move onto the next parts.

Shooting and fighting with sword and spear on horseback.

Mounted archers were something the Easterlings- and her mother- prized in their armies. So with her own horse, Vanimelda taught her to shoot an arrow, bend her now-lithe body backwards until she could shoot upside down, twist around, launch several arrows at a time, and to strike with sword and spear whilst riding at any speed. How to stand on the saddle- partially- hooking the horse's reins with her feet temporarily. It wasn't easy for her- especially since she was very much human- it was hard, back-breaking work and Vanimelda wouldn't stop until she was satisfied. But she didn't have to master it to such an extraordinary degree just yet. Just enough to be a completely formidable opponent and stun an enemy long enough.

'Tinweriel' taught her how to track an animal with so little sound even the sharp ears of a deer or a wolf could not hear her approach. Her tracking lessons.

How shoot at a moving target was completely different. But Adel surprisingly took it quickly. Vanimelda was more pleased than she could ever say.

* * *

Then came a conversation:

"Adel," 'Tinweriel' asked quietly one evening.

"Do you wish to stay here all your life?"

Adel frowned.

"I mean, do you love this place?" Vanimelda went on gently, once again making eye-contact with her pupil. "I see you- and others- being treated so abominably here. The accused do not even get a fair trial- and the punishments for minor offences are so harsh- such as stealing- it isn't an inexcusable crime, actually- but people are starving. I can see that. They are living hand-to-mouth here and no child is being fed enough. I've been to other places. Children of ten, for example, are larger than that boy whose mother was a seamstress three streets from where you live." Adel stiffened and then looked down.

"People are poor here," Adel said finally. "Things… Never change."

"There is no future here," Vanimelda said softly, not taking her eyes off her pupil's.

"No," Adel agreed, shaking her head. "And the land is barren. People can't get a decent crop here. That's why most of our food comes elsewhere."

Vanimelda frowned. "What about these woods?" She asked. "Does no one get food here?"

Adel shook her head. "It's too dangerous." She said. "The lord thinks these woods are his- and that it's haunted."

"Ah," Vanimelda said dryly. "Well, it isn't. I've checked." The two of them chuckled softly for a while.

"If you could get out of here," Vanimelda began. "Would you?"

Adel looked up, the fire of eagerness in her brown eyes.

"Yes." Then her face fell. "What about the others?"

Vanimelda took a deep breath. "That's what I want to talk to you about. We can't just leave them behind- unless they want to stay."

* * *

'Tinweriel' talked to Adel more, and Adel decided to find out whom she could trust in this town and who was just as discontent. It was hard. Most of them were living under fear. The rest were corrupt and untrustworthy. But Tinweriel told her to take it slow. "Find one first," she had instructed Adel. "Then more when the time is right."

Eventually Adel did find someone- another young woman. Her eyes filled with awe when she beheld Vanimelda. Adel introduced them- Vanimelda as Tinweriel- and the young woman's name was Hazel. And she agreed.

The two of them trained- Vanimelda now had Adel to help Hazel out and demonstrate and Adel had someone to practice with besides her teacher.

Hazel was in awe of her, Vanimelda noted. It wasn't hard to see- in fact it was the most obvious thing in Eä. She was awestruck at her when she looked at her, and again, when she saw her fight and demonstrate. And again when she saw what Adel could now do- what the town guards and most- if not all- knights- could not do. Adel herself was bashful and embarrassed, but quite happy about it. She helped Hazel out as best as she could.

When it was done the two also learnt military order and discipline. And a bit about strategy. "Being educated is most important," Vanimelda explained. "A dumb brute and a bully may bash you out, and a large army but someone smaller, quicker and cleverer knows ways to defeat them, just as there is more than one way to strike a person."

But they didn't have too much time.

Hazel was a bar-tender- her parents had died when she was young, leaving her with a sour-pickled aunt who hit her with a birch stick and yelled at her all the time to clean the house, and brew and draw the ale and beers for the patrons who often insulted and touched her in places she hated. Her uncle- her aunt's husband- was a leery, licentious man who more than once threatened to take her violently and abuse her, or sell her to someone who would.

Hazel was nearly out of time. She was young, and unmarried and soon the young men would come- they would sell her to the first person they saw, if not the highest bidder. Or else a person of the worst sort like the town's captain of the guards- just to spite her- her aunt would do it.

She didn't have much time. So she was pressed to improve.

They needed more recruits.

It was a while, before Vanimelda hesitatingly, proposed her plan. It was just a proposition. But while they would have been frightened before, these two were definitely determined now.

They went out into the towns. Searching for more people- there was the two twins- a boy and a girl named Eric and Aggy. After seeing what these two girls could do- the twins- brow-beaten servants who were one-step above slaves themselves- readily agreed. They were filled with the fire and vigour of life and hated the towns' corrupt rulers, drunkards and bullying guards.

They were trained. And again, there were more people- there were the slaves- slaves of the lord of the town- Cardi and Dera- women who were both Dunlendings and captured in battle when they were young- by raiders. Saradoc- a Dunlending slave and youth also a captive of war. Tor, Sigurd- guardsmen who had been punished severely for refusing to harm someone who might have been innocent, by torture. Harald had been harassed and deep in debt to swindlers- he was so deep in debt to the town's lord now, that they were threatening to take his only daughter for servitude in the lord's household- and no doubt abuse of the worst kind. He had been alarmed, and at first reluctant to participate in anything with women in it, but at the mass protests of the others and 'Tinweriel's' reasoning, he slowly agreed. And he certainly did not regret, even though he had at first been reluctant to allow his only daughter to participate.

There were more that came. And they were trained. Soon they had enough.

Too much cannot participate all at once. So Stig the smith forged weapons and his apprentice helped him. Soon they would have enough.

Vanimelda readied the plans. They all agreed. Soon they would strike.

* * *

Vanimelda looked at maps, and consulted experts on the town and the surrounding area. She knew a village lay nearby.

But she could wait. She went to the other village with some of her closest followers.

Soon they had enough and agreed with Tinweriel and left with her.

Then before anyone noticed their disappearance, they struck.

It was Hazel that made the call.

* * *

Her drunken uncle had- after the pub closed- tried to abuse her. She didn't let it happen.

"No." She said firmly.

Her drunken uncle stared with his bleary, drunken eyes, to see something like the grown formidable lady warrior, she had become.

But he blinked. He hiccupped and took another swig from his tankard.

"What did you say to me?" He asked. "You know as your only male relative, I have rights to sell you to any man I chose. Instead, your aunt and I kept you, fed you, clothed you-"

"To be your slave," Hazel snapped. "You have no goodness in your heart. But no more. I am not the frightened little girl you once tried to violate, _uncle_. And no one has rights over me- especially the likes of you!"

Her uncle reddened and stood, knocking over the chair in his drunken rage. He grabbed her arm, but before he could do anything, Hazel was the one who twisted his arm, and placed her foot behind his feet, making him fall. Stunned, he tried to get up. When he managed to clamber to his feet, Hazel was ready and waiting for him patiently.

With a drunken roar, he aimed a blow, but she side-stepped it easily, grabbed his arm, punched him in the face, kicked him in the gut, and when he doubled over wheezing, she kneed him in the groin.

Then she calmly went and retrieved the weapon Vanimelda and Stig had given her.

Her uncle's face reddened. "Why, I'll show you-" And just when he aimed another blow at her, she struck with her blade. It lopped off her uncle's arm and then when he stared, his eyes bugging in shock at the stump which was pouring blood, she hit him in the face, with the pommel of her sword and then sliced her sword at his throat.

There was a gasp. Hazel looked up to see her aunt. Her eyes bugged. "My husband!" She shrieked. "You little-" But before she could finish her sentence, and while she aimed to lunge at her and scratch her eyes out, Hazel sliced her weapon at her, and that was the end.

Calmly she went outside. The shock of what she had done still lingered but she gave the signal. The sound of a screech owl.

That was it.

They moved into place. Tinweriel looked at the men she had assigned for this task- as they were field hands- and gave the orders.

The townsfolk saw the smoke at the distance. And the light. The fields- not the storehouses- their precious source of grain meagre as it was- were on fire!

They shouted and ran at the distance. But it wasn't one field. Other parts of the town were afire too. It was carefully controlled by Vanimelda so that it would not spread and harm the ones who were innocent. But soon, an arrow lodged itself in a guard's throat. Then they attacked near one of the fields where some of the guards and landowners had ran to investigate.

They realised too late that they were being ambushed. And these were the most formidable fighters, compared to the drunken, slightly fattened, brawny guards who relied on brutality rather than skill to enforce their law.

But before they could sound the alarm, in another field they were being attacked.

The attackers dealt with them. Again, a third field was attacked. But this time they managed to blow a horn and sound the alarm. Too late.

Tinweriel stood on a hill at a distance. And all around the town, they charged.

The attack was outstanding. A few escaped- but that was because Vanimelda allowed it. They would flee to the nearest town. But if these neighbours thought it was nothing, they were sorely mistaken. They hadn't even shown a great deal of their skill in combat at this point, which was what Tinweriel emphasized in her instructions. She made it quite clear.

* * *

The force that came from the next town were two-hundred-and-fifty at least- good odds. They thought they would not face much. But traps had been built and set for them- snares and anything that would temporarily stun them at the very least. All around, there were the best archers, spears and swordspersons, and they slaughtered them, and proceeded to move to the invaders' town.

There they liberated those who swore to follow them. They were promised to be treated fairly. Many agreed.

And another town fell soon after.

Amazed and incredulous with their success, people celebrated, but Vanimelda knew, not for long. Soon word will spread and an army would arrive- a real one. They were well-trained, but not enough. And they would be outnumbered and their weapons needed time to refine and to forge more.

 _We need to leave,_ she told her mother.

 _Yes_.

And so 'Tinweriel' took a deep breath and prepared to tell the people.

* * *

 _ **Yes, I know this was long over-due. The Northmen and Northwomen names come from Names of Middle Earth by Colin Chapman. I also got Easterling, Dunlending and Haradrim names from there too.**_

 _ **The name Tinweriel comes from Merin Essi ar Quenteli. It means what it says up above.**_

 _ **I am a mythology reader, but even though I take inspirations, I certainly don't copy! A lot of things would be different here. And I don't own Tolkien's works- only he does and his inheritors in Tolkien Estate!**_


End file.
